1  How  silent  comes  the  water  round  that  bend. 


THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


JOHN    KEATS 


REPRINTED  FROM  THE  ORIGINAL  EDITIONS 
WITH  NOTES 


FRANCIS  T.    PALGRAVE 

PROFESSOR   OF    POETRY   IN  THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   OXFORD 


NEW    YORK 

THOMAS    Y.    CROWELL   &    CO. 
PUBLISHERS 


Quae  Tibi,  quae  tali  reddam  pro  carmine  dona? 
nam  neque  me  tantum  venientis  sibilus  austri, 
nee  percussa  iuvant  fluctu  tarn  litora,  nee  quae 
saxosas  inter  decurrunt  flumina  valles. 


COPIOUSNESS  in  exquisite  detail,  perpetual  freshness  of 
phrase,  characterize  all  the  poetry  of  Keats,  and  in  the 
work  of  his  earlier  days  are  generally  more  conspicuous 
than  unity  of  interest  or  perfection  of  form; — qualities 
which,  (as,  perhaps,  with  Shakespeare),  his  imaginative 
wealth  of  mind,  —  aurea  facilitas,  —  prevented  him  from 
acquiring  until  first  youth  was  over.  Keats  is  hence  a 
Poet  especially  fit  to  be  read,  as  the  bee  tastes  the  flower, 
a  little  at  a  time,  and  in  those  pleasant  places  which  he 
loves  and  describes  so  well :  —  He  is  a  companion  for  the 
fortunate  moments  of  travel  or  the  country  :  —  the 

latis  otia  fundis, 
speluncae  vivique  lacus, 

are  his  natural  landscape,  the  stage  and  the  scenery  in 
presence  of  which  he,  in  the  fullest  measure,  adds  happi- 
ness to  happiness.  And  it  is  for  such  times,  and  such 
sympathetic  readers,  that  this  little  volume  has  been 
planned;  no  edition  handy  for  the  purpose  being  at 
present  easily  attainable. 

Keats  was  not  only  among  the  most  spontaneous  of  our 
Poets ;  in  his  regard  for  his  own  art,  for  its  own  art's  sake, 
he  appears  also  to  have  been  eminent.  He  certainly 

2056281 


revised  his  three  little  volumes,  (not  reprinted  till  long 
after  his  death),  with  great  care,  following  certain  rules  of 
his  own,  as  every  finely-gifted  Poet  will,  in  order  to  express 
and  aid  his  rhythm  by  his  punctuation  and  arrangement. 
On  this  ground,  therefore,  it  seemed  to  me  worth  while  to 
reproduce  exactly  the  rare  original  texts;  and  also,  as  a 
little  tribute  of  affectionate  honor  to  one,  who,  through 
the  story  of  his  brief  life,  and  the  character  revealed  in 
his  poems  and  letters,  is  invested  with  a  personal  interest 
and  attraction  perhaps  beyond  any  in  the  noble  army  of 
our  Poets.  Every  line  has  therefore  been  thrice  collated 
with  the  primary  issues;  my  printers  have  aided  with  their 
well-known  accuracy  :  —  the  fault  is  probably  with  me,  if 
the  reproduction  be,  anywhere,  imperfect.  And,  as  such 
a  facsimile  has  also  a  bibliographical  interest,  variations 
in  spelling,  —  even  a  few  trifling  errors  or  omissions,  — 
have  been  strictly  followed.* 

If,  however,  the  text  here  given  is,  on  this  last  account, 
not  absolutely  what  Keats,  had  he  lived,  might  have  finally 
left  us,  it  is  incomparably  nearer  to  his  Autotype  than  that 
which,  in  the  ordinary  editions,  has  hitherto  been  accepted. 
So  vast  a  number  of  deviations,  great  and  small,  and  (in 
the  large  majority  of  instances)  injurious,  from  the  Author's 
own  published  words,  was  brought  before  me  in  the  process 
of  collation,  that  Keats,  I  may  without  exaggeration  say, 
cannot  be  truly  read,  as  he  has,  hitherto,  been  generally 
accessible. 

My  scheme  being  to  reprint  the  Poetry  which  bore  the 
sanction  of  the  Poet's  own  imprimatur,  it  may  be  asked 
on  what  principle  a  few  pieces,  left  in  manuscript,  (but 
the  absence  of  which  most  readers,  I  think,  would  have 
regretted),  have  been  here  diffidently  added?  No  rigid 

*  See  note  p.  vi. 


law  can  be  laid  down,  perhaps,  upon  this  difficult  problem, 
except  that  it  is  treason  to  the  dead  to  publish,  (unless  for 
purposes  of  historical  truth),  anything  discreditable  to  the 
living  man.  The  rule  which,  ordinarily,  seems  to  me  the 
safest  and  best,  —  to  insert  only  what  is  altogether,  or 
fairly,  on  a  level  with  the  Poet's  best  work,  —  I  have  here 
endeavored  to  follow.  And,  in  the  case  of  Keats,  it  is  in 
favor  of  this  canon  that  his  hasty,  tentative,  or  simply 
personal  verse  is,  generally,  much  inferior,  (except  in  those 
isolated  phrases  which  so  great  a  genius  could  not,  as  it 
were,  escape),  to  his  finished  efforts;  — and  that  we  have, 
also,  reasonable  grounds  to  infer  that  he  himself  printed 
what  he  thought  worthy  of  publication. 

In  the  Notes,  beside  a  few  simply  exegetical,  my  wish 
has  been,  avoiding  the  ambitious  attempt  at  an  Essay  on 
Keats,  to  elucidate  the  rapid,  yet  gradual,  development  of 
his  powers.  Here,  by  frequent  reference  to  his  beautiful 
Letters,  I  have  endeavored  to  make  the  Poet  his  own 
interpreter :  —  and  I  allow  myself  the  hope,  that  few 
readers  will  find  these  quotations  too  lengthy.  For  the 
rest,  in  so  small  a  volume,  I  have  thought  it  wisest  to  con- 
sult little  and  use  less  of  what  has  been  supplied  by  previous 
commentaries  and  essays  upon  Keats; — including  here 
two  recent  critical  editions,  announced  and  published  after 
I  had  framed  the  plan  of  this  book.  And,  as  its  object  is 
different,  mine  will,  I  hope,  be  found  to  compete  only  in 
the  common  aim  of  extending  the  high  permanent  pleasure 
and  profit,  which  it  is  the  peculiar  privilege  of  Poetry  such 
as  this  to  confer  upon  mankind. 

F.  T.  P. 

August,  1884. 


NOTE. 


To  make  the  present  edition  exactly  correspond  with  the  English 
edition,  double  quotation  marks  should  take  the  place  of  single  ones, 
p.  82,  1.  n,  12,  28;  p.  126,  1.  22,  37;  p.  127,  1.  14;  p.  128,  1.  5. 

Quotation  marks  should  be  omitted,  p.  no,  1.  39;  p.  132,  1.  3,  4. 

"  to"  should  read  "  too,"  p.  157,  1.  22. 

"  or  "  should  read  "  on,"  p.  272,  1.  6. 

"u"  should  be  supplied  to  the  following  words:  — 

arbor,  pp.  22,  68,  97,  107,  125,  162,  165.  ardor,  pp.  13,  28,  123. 
armor,  p.  12.  armory,  p.  259.  behaviors,  p.  3.  belabor'd,  p.  112. 
clamor,  p.  138.  color,  pp.  77,  159.  color'd,  pp.  129,  135.  colors, 
pp.  72,  175.  demeanor,  p.  250.  endeavor,  p.  79.  endeavoring,  p. 
255.  favor,  p.  98.  favorite,  pp.  151,  179.  favors,  p.  3.  flavor,  p. 
30.  harbored,  pp.  184,  246.  'havior,  p.  153.  honor,  pp.  19,  33,  52, 
63,  77,  95,  186,  237,  238.  honors,  p.  94  (but  not  p.  8,  1.  24).  humor, 
p.  182.  laboring,  pp.  206,  242,  248.  labors,  p.  131.  neighbor,  p.  176. 
neighbor'd,  pp.  177,  253.  neighborhood,  p.  73.  odor,  p.  222  (but  not 
odorous,  pp.  95,  150).  odors,  pp.  116,  186.  savor,  pp.  30,  246. 
splendor,  pp.  8,  44,  66,  72,  78,  112,  114,  134,  187,  189,  260,  264,  272 
(but  not  p.  247,  1.  29).  vapors,  pp.  248,  249.  vapory,  pp.  73,  153 
(but  not  vaporous,  p.  84). 

Endymion  should  have  its  lines  numbered  in  tens. 

AMERICAN  PUBLISHERS. 


CONTENTS. 


1817. 

FACE 

"I  STOOD  TIP-TOE  UPON  A  LITTLE  HlLL "  ...  I 

SPECIMEN  OF  AN  INDUCTION  TO  A  POEM  ...  7 

CALIDORE 9 

To  SOME  LADIES 14 

ON  RECEIVING  A  CURIOUS  SHELL,  AND  A  COPY  OF 

VERSES,  FROM  THE  SAME  LADIES      ...  15 

To  *  *  *  * 17 

To  HOPE 18 

IMITATION  OF  SPENSER 20 

"  WOMAN  !     WHEN     I     BEHOLD    THEE    FLIPPANT, 

VAIN" 21 

EPISTLES  — 

To  GEORGE  FELTON  MATHEW      ....  23 

To  MY  BROTHER  GEORGE 26 

To  CHARLES  COWDEN  CLARKE    ....  30 
SONNETS  — 

To  MY  BROTHER  GEORGE 34 

To****** 35 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  DAY  THAT  MR.  LEIGH  HUNT 

LEFT  PRISON 35 

vii 


vm  CONTENTS. 

SONNETS  —  Continued.  PAGE 

"  How  ;  MANY    BARDS    GILD   THE    LAPSES  OF 

TIME" 36 

To  A  FRIEND  WHO  SENT  ME  SOME  ROSES  .       .  36 

To  G.  A.  W 37 

"O  SOLITUDE!  IF  I  MUST  WITH  THEE  DWELL"  37 

To  MY  BROTHERS 38 

"KEEN,     FITFUL    GUSTS    ARE    WHISP'RING     HERE 

AND  THERE  " 38 

"  TO  ONE  WHO  HAS  BEEN   LONG  IN  CITY  PENT  "  39 

ON    FIRST    LOOKING   INTO  CHAPMAN'S   HOMER      .  39 
ON      LEAVING     SOME     FRIENDS     AT     AN      EARLY 

HOUR 40 

ADDRESSED  TO  HAYDON 40 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE  SAME 41 

ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET  ...  41 

To  KOSCIUSKO 42 

"  HAPPY  is  ENGLAND  !  I  COULD  BE  CONTENT  "  .  42 

SLEEP  AND  POETRY 43 

1818. 

ENDYMION 55 

1820. 

LAMIA 171 

ISABELLA;  OR,  THE  POT  OF  BASIL       .       .       .       .193 

THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 212 

ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 225 

ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 228 

ODE  TO  PSYCHE 229 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PAGE 

FANCY 231 

ODE 234 

LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN       .       .       .       .235 

ROBIN  HOOD 236 

To  AUTUMN 238 

ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY 239 

HYPERION 341 

POSTHUMA. 

"  WHEN  I  HAVE  FEARS  THAT  I  MAY  CEASE  TO  BE  "  267 

"  IN  A  DREAR-NIGHTED   DECEMBER  "     .          .          .           .  267 

"  ASLEEP  !     O    SLEEP    A     LITTLE    WHILE,    WHITE 

PEARL" 268 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 268 

THE  HUMAN  SEASONS 271 

ON  FAME 271 

ON  FAME 272 

"  BRIGHT  STAR  !    WOULD   I    WERE    STEADFAST    AS 

THOU  ART  " 272 

NOTES 273 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 297 


[PUBLISHED  1817] 


poeme 

BY 

JOHN    KEATS. 


1  What  more  felicity  can  fall  to  creature, 
'  Than  to  enjoy  delight  with  liberty." 

Fate  of  the  Butterfly.  —  SPENSER. 


509etucati0n. 


TO   LEIGH    HUNT,   ESQ. 

GLORY  and  loveliness  have  passed  away; 

For  if  we  wander  out  in  early  morn, 

No  wreathed  incense  do  we  see  upborne 
Into  the  east,  to  meet  the  smiling  day : 
No  crowd  of  nymphs  soft  voic'd  and  young,  aj>H  gay, 

In  woven  baskets  bringing  ears  of  corn, 

Roses,  and  pinks,  and  violets,  to  adorn 
The  shrine  of  Flora  in  her  early  May. 
But  there  are  left  delights  as  high  as  these, 

And  I  shall  ever  bless  my  destiny, 
That  in  a  time,  when  under  pleasant  trees 

Pan  is  no  longer  sought,  I  feel  a  free 
A  leafy  luxury,  seeing  I  could  please 

With  these  poor  offerings,  a  man  like  thee. 


[The  Short  Pieces  in  the  middle  of  the  Book,  as  well  as 
some  of  the  Sonnets,  were  written  at  an  eadier  period 
than  the  rest  of  the  Poems.] 


POEMS. 


"  Places  of  nestling  green  for  Poets  made." 

STORY  OF  RIMINI. 

I  STOOD  tip-toe  upon  a  little  hill, 

The  air  was  cooling,  and  so  very  still, 

That  the  sweet  buds  which  with  a  modest  pride 

Pull  droopingly,  in  slanting  curve  aside, 

Their  scantly  leaved,  and  finely  tapering  stems, 

Had  not  yet  lost  those  starry  diadems 

Caught  from  the  early  sobbing  of  the  morn. 

The  clouds  were  pure  and  white  as  flocks  new  shorn, 

And  fresh  from  the  clear  brook  ;  sweetly  they  slept 

On  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  and  then  there  crept 

A  little  noiseless  noise  among  the  leaves, 

Born  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves : 

For  not  the  faintest  motion  could  be  seen 

Of  all  the  shades  that  slanted  o'er  the  green. 

There  was  wide  wand'ring  for  the  greediest  eye, 

To  peer  about  upon  variety ; 

Far  round  the  horizon's  crystal  air  to  skim, 

And  trace  the  dwindled  edgings  of  its  brim  ; 

To  picture  out  the  quaint,  and  curious  bending 

Of  a  fresh  woodland  alley,  never  ending ; 

Or  by  the  bowery  clefts,  and  leafy  shelves, 

Guess  where  the  jaunty  streams  refresh  themselves. 

I  gazed  awhile,  and  felt  as  light,  and  free 

As  though  the  fanning  wings  of  Mercury 

Had  played  upon  my  heels :  I  was  light-hearted, 

And  many  pleasures  to  my  vision  started ; 

So  I  straightway  began  to  pluck  a  posey 


2  POEMS. 

Of  luxuries  bright,  milky,  soft  and  rosy. 

A  bush  of  May  flowers  with  the  bees  about  them ; 

Ah,  sure  no  tasteful  nook  would  be  without  them  ; 

And  let  a  lush  laburnum  oversweep  them, 

And  let  long  grass  grow  round  the  roots  to  keep  them 

Moist,  cool  and  green ;  and  shade  the  violets, 

That  they  may  bind  the  moss  in  leafy  nets. 

A  filbert  hedge  with  wildbriar  overtwined, 
And  clumps  of  woodbine  taking  the  soft  wind 
Upon  their  summer  thrones  ;  there  too  should  be 
The  frequent  chequer  of  a  youngling  tree, 
That  with  a  score  of  light  green  breth[r]en  shoots 
From  the  quaint  mossiness  of  aged  roots : 
Round  which  is  heard  a  spring-head  of  clear  waters 
Babbling  so  wildly  of  its  lovely  daughters 
The  spreading  blue  bells :  it  may  haply  mourn 
That  such  fair  clusters  should  be  rudely  torn 
From  their  fresh  beds,  and  scattered  thoughtlessly 
By  infant  hands,  left  on  the  path  to  die. 

Open  afresh  your  round  of  starry  folds, 

Ye  ardent  marigolds! 

Dry  up  the  moisture  from  your  golden  lids, 

For  great  Apollo  bids 

That  in  these  days  your  praises  should  be  sung 

On  many  harps,  which  he  has  lately  strung ; 

And  when  again  your  dewiness  he  kisses, 

Tell  him,  I  have  you  in  my  world  of  blisses : 

So  haply  when  I  rove  in  some  far  vale, 

His  mighty  voice  may  come  upon  the  gale. 

Here  are  sweet  peas,  on  tip-toe  for  a  flight : 
With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white, 
And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things, 
To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings. 

Linger  awhile  upon  some  bending  planks 
That  lean  against  a  streamlet's  rushy  banks, 


POEMS.  3 

And  watch  intently  Nature's  gentle  doings : 

They  will  be  found  softer  than  ring-dove's  cooings. 

How  silent  comes  the  water  round  that  bend ; 

Not  the  minutest  whisper  does  it  send 

To  the  o'erhanging  sallows  :  blades  of  grass 

Slowly  across  the  chequer'd  shadows  pass. 

Why,  you  might  read  two  sonnets,  ere  they  reach 

To  where  the  hurrying  freshnesses  aye  preach 

A  natural  sermon  o'er  their  pebbly  beds  ; 

Where  swarms  of  minnows  show  their  little  heads, 

Staying  their  wavy  bodies  'gainst  the  streams, 

To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 

Temper'd  with  coolness.     How  they  ever  wrestle 

With  their  own  sweet  delight,  and  ever  nestle 

Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  sand. 

If  you  but  scantily  hold  out  the  hand, 

That  very  instant  not  one  will  remain ; 

But  turn  your  eye,  and  they  are  there  again. 

The  ripples  seem  right  glad  to  reach  those  cresses, 

And  cool  themselves  among  the  em'rald  tresses ; 

The  while  they  cool  themselves,  they  freshness  give, 

And  moisture,  that  the  bowery  green  may  live : 

So  keeping  up  an  interchange  of  favors, 

Like  good  men  in  the  truth  of  their  behaviors  [.] 

Sometimes  goldfinches  one  by  one  will  drop 

From  low  hung  branches  ;  little  space  they  stop ; 

But  sip,  and  twitter,  and  their  feathers  sleek ; 

Then  off  at  once,  as  in  a  wanton  freak : 

Or  perhaps,  to  show  their  black,  and  golden  wings, 

Pausing  upon  their  yellow  flutterings. 

Were  I  in  such  a  place,  I  sure  should  pray 

1  hat  nought  less  sweet,  might  call  my  thoughts  away, 

Than  the  soft  rustle  of  a  maiden's  gown 

Fanning  away  the  dandelion's  down ; 

Than  the  light  music  of  her  nimble  toes 

Patting  against  the  sorrel  as  she  goes.* 

How  she  would  start,  and  blush,  thus  to  be  caught 

Playing  in  all  her  innocence  of  thought. 

O  let  me  lead  her  gently  o'er  the  brook, 


4  POEMS. 

Watch  her  half-smiling  lips,  and  downward  look ; 

O  let  me  for  one  moment  touch  her  wrist ; 

Let  me  one  moment  to  her  breathing  list ; 

And  as  she  leaves  me  may  she  often  turn 

Her  fair  eyes  looking  through  her  locks  auburne. 

What  next?     A  tuft  of  evening  primroses, 

O'er  which  the  mind  may  hover  till  it  dozes ; 

O'er  which  it  well  might  take  a  pleasant  sleep, 

But  that  'tis  ever  startled  by  the  leap 

Of  buds  into  ripe  flowers  ;  or  by  the  flitting 

Of  diverse  moths,  that  aye  their  rest  are  quitting ; 

Or  by  the  moon  lifting  her  silver  rim 

Above  a  cloud,  and  with  a  gradual  swim 

Coming  into  the  blue  with  all  her  light. 

O  Maker  of  sweet  poets,  dear  delight 

Of  this  fair  world,  and  all  its  gentle  livers ; 

Spangler  of  clouds,  halo  of  crystal  rivers, 

Mingler  with  leaves,  and  dew  and  tumbling  streams, 

Closer  of  lovely  eyes  to  lovely  dreams, 

Lover  of  loneliness,  and  wandering, 

Of  upcast  eye,  and  tender  pondering! 

Thee  must  I  praise  above  all  other  glories 

That  smile  us  on  to  tell  delightful  stories. 

For  what  has  made  the  sage  or  poet  write 

But  the  fair  paradise  of  Nature's  light? 

In  the  calm  grandeur  of  a  sober  line, 

We  see  the  waving  of  the  mountain  pine  ; 

And  when  a  tale  is  beautifully  staid, 

We  feel  the  safety  of  a  hawthorn  glade : 

When  it  is  moving  on  luxurious  wings. 

The  soul  is  lost  in  pleasant  smotherings  : 

Fair  dewy  roses  brush  against  our  faces. 

And  flowering  laurels  spring  from  diamond  vases ; 

O'erhead  we  see  the  jasmine  and  sweet  briar, 

And  bloomy  grapes  laughing  from  green  attire  ; 

While  at  our  feet,  the  voice  of  crystal  bubbles 

Charms  us  at  once  away  from  all  our  troubles : 

So  that  we  feel  uplifted  from  the  world, 

Walking  upon  the  white  clouds  wreath'd  and  cuiTd. 


POEMS.  5 

So  felt  he,  who  first  told,  how  Psyche  went 
On  the  smooth  wind  to  realms  of  wonderment ; 
What  Psyche  felt,  and  Love,  when  their  full  lips 
First  touch'd ;  what  amorous  and  fondling  nips 
They  gave  each  other's  cheeks ;  with  all  their  sighs, 
And  how  they  kist  each  other's  tremulous  eyes : 
The  silver  lamp,  —  the  ravishment,  —  the  wonder  — 
The  darkness,  —  loneliness,  —  the  fearful  thunder ; 
Their  woes  gone  by,  and  both  to  heaven  upflown, 
To  bow  for  gratitude  before  Jove's  throne. 
So  did  he  feel,  who  pull'd  the  boughs  aside, 
That  we  might  look  into  a  forest  wide, 
To  catch  a  glimpse  of  Fawns,  and  Dryades 
Coming  with  softest  rustle  through  the  trees ; 
And  garlands  woven  of  flowers  wild,  and  sweet, 
Upheld  on  ivory  wrists,  or  sporting  feet : 
Telling  us  how  fair,  trembling  Syrinx  fled 
Arcadian  Pan,  with  such  a  fearful  dread. 
Poor  Nymph,  —  poor  Pan,  —  how  did  he  weep  to  find. 
Nought  but  a  lovely  sighing  of  the  wind 
Along  the  reedy  stream  ;  a  half  heard  strain, 
Full  of  sweet  desolation  —  balmy  pain. 

What  first  inspired  a  bard  of  old  to  sing 

Narcissus  pining  o'er  the  untainted  spring? 

In  some  delicious  ramble,  he  had  found 

A  little  space,  with  boughs  all  woven  round ; 

And  in  the  midst  of  all,  a  clearer  pool 

Than  e'er  reflected  in  its  pleasant  cool, 

The  blue  sky  here,  and  there,  serenely  peeping 

Through  tendril  wreaths  fantastically  creeping. 

And  on  the  bank  a  lonely  flower  he  spied, 

A  meek  and  forlorn  flower,  with  naught  of  pride, 

Drooping  its  beauty  o'er  the  watery  clearness, 

To  woo  its  own  sad  image  into  nearness  : 

Deaf  to  light  Zephyrus  it  would  not  move ; 

But  still  would  seem  to  droop,  to  pine,  to  love. 

So  while  the  Poet  stood  in  this  sweet  spot, 

Some  fainter  gleamings  o'er  his  fancy  shot ; 


6  POEMS. 

Nor  was  it  long  ere  he  had  told  the  tale 
Of  young  Narcissus,  and  sad  Echo's  bale. 

Where  had  he  been,  from  whose  warm  head  out-flew 

That  sweetest  of  all  songs,  that  ever  new, 

That  aye  refreshing,  pure  deliciousness, 

Coming  ever  to  bless 

The  wanderer  by  moonlight?  to  him  bringing 

Shapes  from  the  invisible  world,  unearthly  singing 

From  out  the  middle  air,  from  flowery  nests, 

And  from  the  pillowy  silkiness  that  rests 

Full  in  the  speculation  of  the  stars. 

Ah !  surely  he  had  burst  our  mortal  bars ; 

Into  some  wond'rous  region  he  had  gone, 

To  search  for  thee,  divine  Endymion ! 

He  was  a  Poet,  sure  a  lover  too, 

Who  stood  on  Latmus'.top,  what  time  there  blew 

Soft  breezes  from  the  myrtle  vale  below ; 

And  brought  in  faintness  solemn,  sweet,  and  slow 

A  hymn  from  Dian's  temple ;  while  upswelling, 

The  incense  went  to  her  own  starry  dwelling. 

But  though  her  face  was  clear  as  infant's  eyes, 

Though  she  stood  smiling  o'er  the  sacrifice, 

The  Poet  wept  at  her  so  piteous  fate, 

Wept  that  such  beauty  should  be  desolate : 

So  in  fine  wrath  some  golden  sounds  he  won, 

And  gave  meek  Cynthia  her  Endymion. 

Queen  of  the  wide  air ;  thou  most  lovely  queen 
Of  all  the  brightness  that  mine  eyes  have  seen! 
As  thou  exceedest  all  things  in  thy  shine, 
So  every  tale,  does  this  sweet  tale  of  thine. 
O  for  three  words  of  honey,  that  I  might 
Tell  but  one  wonder  of  thy  bridal  night ! 

Where  distant  ships  do  seem  to  show  their  keels, 
Phoebus  awhile  delayed  his  mighty  wheels, 
And  turned  to  smile  upon  thy  bashful  eyes, 


POEMS.  7 

Ere  he  his  unseen  pomp  would  solemnize. 

The  evening  weather  was  so  bright,  and  clear, 

That  men  of  health  were  of  unusual  cheer  ; 

Stepping  like  Homer  at  the  trumpet's  call, 

Or  young  Apollo  on  the  pedestal : 

And  lovely  women  were  as  fair  and  warm, 

As  Venus  looking  sideways  in  alarm. 

The  breezes  were  ethereal,  and  pure, 

And  crept  through  half  closed  lattices  to  cure 

The  languid  sick ;  it  cool'd  their  fever'd  sleep, 

And  soothed  them  into  slumbers  full  and  deep. 

Soon  they  awoke  clear  eyed  :  nor  burnt  with  thirsting, 

Nor  with  hot  fingers,  nor  with  temples  bursting : 

And  springing  up,  they  met  the  wond'ring  sight 

Of  their  dear  friends,  nigh  foolish  with  delight ; 

Who  feel  their  arms,  and  breasts,  and  kiss  and  stare, 

And  on  their  placid  foreheads  part  the  hair. 

Young  men,  and  maidens  at  each  other  gaz'd 

With  hands  held  back,  and  motionless,  amaz'd 

To  see  the  brightness  in  each  others'  eyes ; 

And  so  they  stood,  fill'd  with  a  sweet  surprise, 

Until  their  tongues  were  loos'd  in  poesy. 

Therefore  no  lover  did  of  anguish  die : 

But  the  soft  numbers,  in  that  moment  spoken, 

Made  silken  ties,  that  never  may  be  broken. 

Cynthia  !  I  cannot  tell  the  greater  blisses, 

That  follow'd  thine,  and  thy  dear  shepherd's  kisses : 

Was  there  a  Poet  born  ?  —  but  now  no  more, 

My  wand'ring  spirit  must  no  further  soar.  — 


SPECIMEN   OF   AN   INDUCTION   TO   A 
POEM. 

Lo  !  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry ; 

For  large  white  plumes  are  dancing  in  mine  eye. 

Not  like  the  formal  crest  of  latter  days : 

But  bending  in  a  thousand  graceful  ways  ; 


8  POEMS. 

So  graceful,  that  it  seems  no  mortal  hand. 

Or  e'en  the  touch  of  Archimago's  wand. 

Could  charm  them  into  such  an  attitude. 

We  must  think  rather,  that  in  playful  mood, 

Some  mountain  breeze  had  turned  its  chief  delight, 

To  show  this  wonder  of  its  gentle  might. 

Lo  !  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry ; 

For  while  I  muse,  the  lance  points  slantingly 

Athwart  the  morning  air :  some  lady  sweet, 

Who  cannot  feel  for  cold  her  tender  feet, 

From  the  worn  top  of  some  old  battlement 

Hails  it  with  tears,  her  stout  defender  sent : 

And  from  her  own  pure  self  no  joy  dissembling. 

Wraps  round  her  ample  robe  with  happy  trembling. 

Sometimes,  when  the  good  Knight  his  rest  would  take. 

It  is  reflected,  clearly,  in  a  lake, 

With  the  young  ashen  boughs,  'gainst  which  it  rests, 

And  th'  half  seen  mossiness  of  linnets'  nests. 

Ah  !  shall  I  ever  tell  its  cruelty, 

When  the  fire  flashes  from  a  warrior's  eye. 

And  his  tremendous  hand  is  grasping  it, 

And  his  dark  brow  for  very  wrath  is  knit? 

Or  when  his  spirit,  with  more  calm  intent, 

Leaps  to  the  honors  of  a  tournament, 

And  makes  the  gazers  round  about  the  ring 

Stare  at  the  grandeur  of  the  bal lancing? 

No,  no  !  this  is  far  oft":  —  then  how  shall  I 

Revive  the  dying  tones  of  minstrelsy, 

Which  linger  yet  about  lone  gothic  arches, 

In  dark  green  ivy,  and  among  wild  larches? 

How  sing  the  splendor  of  the  revelries, 

When  but[t]s  of  wine  are  drunk  off  to  the  lees? 

And  that  bright  lance,  against  the  fretted  wall, 

Beneath  the  shade  of  stately  banneral, 

Is  slung  with  shining  cuirass,  sword,  and  shield? 

Where  ye  may  see  a  spur  in  bloody  field. 

Light-footed  damsels  move  with  gentle  paces 

Round  the  wide  hall,  and  show  their  happy  faces ; 

Or  stand  in  courtly  talk  by  fives  and  sevens  : 


POEMS.  9 

Like  those  fair  stars  that  twinkle  in  the  heavens. 
Yet  must  I  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry : 
Or  wherefore  comes  that  knight  so  proudly  by? 
Wherefore  more  proudly  does  the  gentle  knight, 
Rein  in  the  swelling  of  his  ample  might  ? 

Spenser!  thy  brows  are  arched,  open,  kind, 

And  come  like  a  clear  sun-rise  to  my  mind  ; 

And  always  does  my  heart  with  pleasure  dance, 

When  I  think  on  thy  noble  countenance : 

Where  never  yet  was  ought  more  earthly  seen 

Than  the  pure  freshness  of  thy  laurels  green. 

Therefore,  great  bard,  I  not  so  fearfully 

Call  on  thy  gentle  spirit  to  hover  nigh 

My  daring  steps  :  or  if  thy  tender  care, 

Thus  startled  unaware, 

Be  jealous  that  the  foot  of  other  wight 

Should  madly  follow  that  bright  path  of  light 

Trac'd  by  thy  lov'd  Libertas ;  he  will  speak, 

And  tell  thee  that  my  prayer  is  very  meek ; 

That  I  will  follow  with  due  reverence, 

And  start  with  awe  at  mine  own  strange  pretence. 

Him  thou  wilt  hear ;  so  I  will  rest  in  hope 

To  see  wide  plains,  fair  trees  and  lawny  slope : 

The  morn,  the  eve,  the  light,  the  shade,  the  flowers ; 

Clear  streams,  smooth  lakes,  and  overlooking  towers 


CALIDORE. 


YOUNG  Calidore  is  paddling  o'er  the  lake  ; 

His  healthful  spirit  eager  and  awake 

To  feel  the  beauty  of  a  silent  eve, 

Which  seem'd  full  loath  this  happy  world  to  leave  ; 

The  light  dwelt  o'er  the  scene  so  lingeringly. 

He  bares  his  forehead  to  the  cool  blue  sky, 


10  POEMS. 

And  smiles  at  the  far  clearness  all  around, 

Until  his  heart  is  well  nigh  over  wound, 

And  turns  for  calmness  to  the  pleasant  green 

Of  easy  slopes,  and  shadowy  trees  that  lean 

So  elegantly  o'er  the  waters'  brim 

And  show  their  blossoms  trim. 

Scarce  can  his  clear  and  nimble  eye-sight  follow 

The  freaks,  and  dartings  of  the  black-wing'd  swallow, 

Delighting  much,  to  see  it  half  at  rest, 

Dip  so  refreshingly  its  wings,  and  breast 

'Gainst  the  smooth  surface,  and  to  mark  anon, 

The  widening  circles  into  nothing  gone. 

And  now  the  sharp  keel  of  his  little  boat 
Comes  up  with  ripple,  and  with  easy  float, 
And  glides  into  a  bed  of  water  lillies : 
Broad  leav'd  are  they  and  their  white  canopies 
Are  upward  turn'd  to  catch  the  heavens'  dew. 
Near  to  a  little  island's  point  they  grew ; 
Whence  Calidore  might  have  the  goodliest  view 
Of  this  sweet  spot  of  earth.     The  bowery  shore 
Went  off  in  gentle  windings  to  the  hoar 
And  light  blue  mountains :  but  no  breathing  man 
With  a  warm  heart,  and  eye  prepared  to  scan 
Nature's  clear  beauty,  could  pass  lightly  by 
Objects  that  look'd  out  so  invitingly 
On  either  side.     These,  gentle  Calidore 
Greeted,  as  he  had  known  them  long  before. 

The  sidelong  view  of  swelling  leafiness, 
Which  the  glad  setting  sun,  m  gold  doth  dress ; 
Whence  ever,  and  anon  the  jay  outsprings, 
And  scales  upon  the  beauty  of  its  wings. 

The  lonely  turret,  shatter'd,  and  outworn, 
Stands  venerably  proud  ;  too  proud  to  mourn 
Its  long  lost  grandeur :  fir  trees  grow  around, 
Aye  dropping  their  hard  fruit  upon  the  ground. 


POEMS.  1 1 

The  little  chapel  with  the  cross  above 
Upholding  wreaths  of  ivy ;  the  white  dove, 
That  on  the  windows  spreads  his  feathers  light, 
And  seems  from  purple  clouds  to  wing  its  flight. 

Qreen  tufted  islands  casting  their  soft  shades 

Across  the  lake  ;  sequester'd  leafy  glades, 

That  through  the  dimness  of  their  twilight  show 

Large  dock  leaves,  spiral  foxgloves,  or  the  glow 

Of  the  wild  cat's  eyes,  or  the  silvery  stems 

Of  delicate  birch  trees,  or  long  grass  which  hems 

A  little  brook.     The  youth  had  long  been  viewing 

These  pleasant  things,  and  heaven  was  bedewing 

The  mountain  flowers,  when  his  glad  senses  caught 

A  trumpet's  silver  voice.     Ah!  it  was  fraught 

With  many  joys  for  him  :  the  warder's  ken 

Had  found  white  coursers  prancing  in  the  glen : 

Friends  very  dear  to  him  he  soon  will  see  ; 

So  pushes  off  his  boat  most  eagerly, 

And  soon  upon  the  lake  he  skims  along, 

Deaf  to  the  nightingale's  first  under-song ; 

Nor  minds  he  the  white  swans  that  dream  so  sweetly : 

His  spirit  flies  before  him  so  completely. 

And  now  he  turns  a  jutting  point  of  land, 
Whence  may  be  seen  the  castle  gloomy,  and  grand : 
Nor  will  a  bee  buzz  round  two  swelling  peaches, 
Before  the  point  of  his  light  shallop  reaches 
Those  marble  steps  that  through  the  water  dip : 
Now  over  them  he  goes  with  hasty  trip, 
And  scarcely  stays  to  ope  the  folding  doors : 
Anon  he  leaps  along  the  oaken  floors 
Of  halls  and  corridors. 

Delicious  sounds!  those  little  bright-eyed  things 
That  float  about  the  air  on  azure  wings, 
Had  been  less  heartfelt  by  him  than  the  clang 
Of  clattering  hoofs  ;  into  the  court  he  sprang, 
Just  as  two  noble  steeds,  and  palfreys  twain, 


1 2  POEMS. 

Were  slanting  out  their  necks  with  loosened  rein ; 

While  from  beneath  the  threat'ning  portcullis 

They  brought  their  happy  burthens.     What  a  kiss, 

What  gentle  squeeze  he  gave  each  lady's  hand  ! 

How  tremblingly  their  delicate  ancles  spann'd! 

Into  how  sweet  a  trance  his  soul  was  gone, 

While  whisperings  of  affection 

Made  him  delay  to  let  their  tender  feet 

Come  to  the  earth  ;  with  an  incline  so  sweet 

From  their  low  palfreys  o'er  his  neck  they  bent : 

And  whether  there  were  tears  of  languishment, 

Or  that  the  evening  dew  had  pearTd  their  tresses, 

He  feels  a  moisture  on  his  cheek,  and  blesses 

With  lips  that  tremble,  and  with  glistening  eye 

All  the  soft  luxury 

That  nestled  in  his  arms.     A  dimpled  hand, 

Fair  as  some  wonder  out  of  fairy  land, 

Hung  from  his  shoulder  like  the  drooping  flowers 

Of  whitest  Cassia,  fresh  from  summer  showers  : 

And  this  he  fondled  with  his  happy  cheek 

As  if  for  joy  he  would  no  further  seek ; 

When  the  kind  voice  of  good  Sir  Clerimond 

Came  to  his  ear,  like  something  from  beyond 

His  present  being :  so  he  gently  drew 

His  warm  arms,  thrilling  now  with  pulses  new. 

From  their  sweet  thrall,  and  fonvard  gently  bending, 

Thank'd  heaven  that  his  joy  was  never  ending ; 

While  'gainst  his  forehead  he  devoutly  pressed 

A  hand  heaven  made  to  succor  the  distressed  ; 

A  hand  that  from  the  world'5  bleak  promontory 

Had  lifted  Calidore  for  deeds  of  glory. 

Amid  the  pages,  and  the  torches1  glare, 

There  stood  a  knight,  patting  the  flowing  hair 

Of  his  proud  horse's  mane  :  he  was  withal 

A  man  of  elegance,  and  stature  tall : 

So  that  the  waving  of  his  plumes  would  be 

High  as  the  berries  of  a  wild  ash  tree, 

Or  as  the  winged  cap  of  Mercury. 

His  armor  was  so  dextrously  wrought 


POEMS.  13 

In  shape,  that  sure  no  living  man  had  thought 

It  hard,  and  heavy  steel :  but  that  indeed 

It  was  some  glorious  form,  some  splendid  weed, 

In  which  a  spirit  new  come  from  the  skies 

Might  live,  and  show  itself  to  human  eyes. 

Tis  the  far-fam'd,  the  brave  Sir  Gondibert, 

Said  the  good  man  to  Calidore  alert ; 

While  the  young  warrior  with  a  step  of  grace 

Came  up,  —  a  courtly  smile  upon  his  face, 

And  mailed  hand  held  out,  ready  to  greet 

The  large-eyed  wonder,  and  ambitious  heat 

Of  the  aspiring  boy ;  who  as  he  led 

Those  smiling  ladies,  often  turned  his  head 

To  admire  the  visor  arched  so  gracefully 

Over  a  knightly  brow ;  while  they  went  by 

The   lamps   that    from    the    high-roof 'd    hall   were 

pendent, 
And  gave  the  steel  a  shining  quite  transcendent 

Soon  in  a  pleasant  chamber  they  are  seated  ; 

The  sweet-lipp'd  ladies  have  already  greeted 

All  the  green  leaves  that  round  the  window  clamber, 

To  show  their  purple  stars,  and  bells  of  amber. 

Sir  Gondibert  has  doff'd  his  shining  steel, 

Gladdening  in  the  free,  and  airy  feel 

Of  a  light  mantle  ;  and  while  Clerimond 

Is  looking  round  about  him  with  a  fond, 

And  placid  eye,  young  Calidore  is  burning 

To  hear  of  knightly  deeds,  and  gallant  spurning 

Of  all  unworthiness  ;  and  how  the  strong  of  arm 

Kept  off  dismay,  and  terror,  and  alarm 

From  lovely  woman  :  while  brimful  of  this, 

He  gave  each  damsel's  hand  so  warm  a  kiss, 

And  had  such  manly  ardor  in  his  eye, 

That  each  at  other  look'd  half  staringly ; 

And  then  their  features  started  into  smiles 

Sweet  as  blue  heavens  o'er  enchanted  isles. 

Softly  the  breezes  from  the  forest  came, 
Softly  they  blew  aside  the  taper's  flame ; 


14  POEMS. 

Clear  was  the  song  from  Philomel's  far  bower ; 
Grateful  the  incense  from  the  lime-tree  flower ; 
Mysterious,  wild,  the  far-heard  trumpet's  tone  ; 
Lovely  the  moon  in  ether,  all  alone  : 
Sweet  too  the  converse  of  these  happy  mortals, 
As  that  of  busy  spirits  when  the  portals 
Are  closing  in  the  west ;  or  that  soft  humming 
We  hear  around  when  Hesperus  is  coming. 
Sweet  be  their  sleep.  *******#* 


TO   SOME   LADIES. 

WHAT  though  while  the  wonders  of  nature  exploring, 
I  cannot  your  light,  mazy  footsteps  attend ; 

Nor  listen  to  accents,  that  almost  adoring, 
Bless  Cynthia's  face,  the  enthusiast's  friend  : 

Yet  over  the   steep,   whence  the  mountain  stream 
rushes, 

With  you,  kindest  friends,  in  idea  I  rove ; 
Mark  the  clear  tumbling  crystal,  its  passionate  gushes, 

Its  spray  that  the  wild  flower  kindly  bedews. 

Why  linger  you  so,  the  wild  labyrinth  strolling? 

Why  breathless,  unable  your  bliss  to  declare  ? 
Ah  !  you  list  to  the  nightingale's  tender  condoling, 

Responsive  to  sylphs,  in  the  moon  beamy  air. 

'Tis  morn,  and  the  flowers  with  dew  are  yet  drooping, 
I  see  you  are  treading  the  verge  of  the  sea : 

And  now  !  ah,  I  see  it  —  you  just  now  are  stooping 
To  pick  up  the  keep-sake  intended  for  me. 

If  a  cherub,  on  pinions  of  silver  descending, 

Had   brought   me  a  gem  from   the   fret-work   of 

heaven ; 
And  smiles,   with   his  star  -  cheering  voice  sweetly 

blending, 
The  blessings  of  Tighe  had  melodiously  given ; 


POEMS.  15 

It  had  not  created  a  warmer  emotion 

Than  the  present,  fair  nymphs,  I  was  blest  with 

from  you, 
Than  the  shell,  from  the  bright  golden  sands  of  the 

ocean 
Which  the  emerald  waves  at  your  feet  gladly  threw. 

For,  indeed,  'tis  a  sweet  and  peculiar  pleasure, 
(And  blissful  is  he  who  such  happiness  finds,) 

To  possess  but  a  span  of  the  hour  of  leisure, 
In  elegant,  pure,  and  aerial  minds. 


On  receiving  a  curious  Shell,  and  a  Copy  df 
Verses,  from  the  same  Ladies. 

HAST  thou  from  the  caves  of  Golconda,  a  gem 
Pure  as  the  ice-drop  that  froze  on  the  mountain  ? 

Bright  as  the  humming-bird's  green  diadem. 
When  it  flutters  in  sun-beams  that  shine  through  a 
fountain  ? 

Hast  thou  a  goblet  for  dark  sparkling  wine  ? 

That  goblet  right  heavy,  and  massy,  and  gold? 
And  splendidly  mark'd  with  the  story  divine 

Of  Armida  the  fair,  and  Rinaldo  the  bold? 

Hast  thou  a  steed  with  a  mane  richly  flowing? 

Hast  thou  a  sword  that  thine  enemy's  smart  is? 
Hast  thou  a  trumpet  rich  melodies  blowing  ? 

And  wear'st  thou  the  shield  of  the  fam'd  Brito- 
martis  ? 

What  is  it  that  hangs  from  thy  shoulder,  so  brave, 
Embroidered  with  many  a  spring  peering  flower? 

Is  it  a  scarf  that  thy  fair  lady  gave  ? 

And  hastest  thou  now  to  that  fair  lady's -bower? 


1 6  POEMS. 

Ah  !  courteous  Sir  Knight,  with  large  joy  thou  art 
crown'd ; 

Full  many  the  glories  that  brighten  thy  youth  ! 
I  will  tell  thee  my  blisses,  which  richly  abound 

In  magical  powers  to  bless,  and  to  sooth. 

On  this  scroll  thou  seest  written  in  characters  fair 
A  sun-beamy  tale  of  a  wreath,  and  a  chain ; 

And,  warrior,  it  nurtures  the  property  rare 
Of  charming  my  mind  from  the  trammels  of  pain. 

This  canopy  mark :  'tis  the  work  of  a  K./  ; 

Beneath  its  rich  shade  did  King  Oberon  languish, 
When  lovely  Titania  was  far,  far  away, 

And  cruelly  left  him  to  sorrow,  and  anguish. 

There,  oft  would  he  bring  from  his  soft  sighing  lute 
Wild  strains  to  which,  spell-bound,  the  nightingaler 

listened ; 

The  wondering  spirits  of  heaven  were  mute, 
And  tears   'mong  the   dewdrops   of  morning   oft 
glistened. 

In  this  little  dome,  all  those  melodies  strange, 
Soft,  plaintive,  and  melting,  for  ever  will  sigh  ; 

Nor  e'er  will  the  notes  from  then"  tenderness  change  ; 
Nor  e'er  will  the  music  of  Oberon  die. 

So,  when  I  am  in  a  voluptuous  vein, 

I  pillow  my  head  on  the  sweets  of  the  rose, 

And  list  to  the  tale  of  the  wreath,  and  the  chain, 
Till  its  echoes  depart ;  then  I  sink  to  repose. 

Adieu,  valiant  Eric  !  with  joy  thou  art  crowned  ; 

Full  many  the  glories  that  brighten  thy  youth, 
I  too  have  my  blisses,  which  richly  abound 

In  magical  powers,  to  bless  and  to  sooth. 


POEMS, 


TO 


*  *  *  # 


HADST  thou  liv'd  in  days  of  old, 

O  what  wonders  had  been  told 

Of  thy  lively  countenance, 

And  thy  humid  eyes  that  dance 

In  the  midst  of  their  own  brightness ; 

In  the  very  fane  of  lightness. 

Over  which  thine  eyebrows,  leaning, 

Picture  out  each  lovely  meaning : 

In  a  dainty  bend  they  lie, 

Like  to  streaks  across  the  sky, 

Or  the  feathers  from  a  crow, 

Fallen  on  a  bed  of  snow. 

Of  thy  dark  hair  that  extends 

Into  many  graceful  bends  : 

As  the  leaves  of  Hellebore 

Turn  to  whence  they  sprung  before. 

And  behind  each  ample  curl 

Peeps  the  richness  of  a  pearl. 

Downward  too  flows  many  a  tress 

With  a  glossy  waviness  ; 

Full,  and  round  like  globes  that  rise 

From  the  censer  to  the  skies 

Through  sunny  air.    Add  too,  the  sweetness 

Of  thy  honied  voice  ;  the  neatness 

Of  thine  ankle  lightly  turn'd  : 

With  those  beauties,  scarce  discern'd, 

Kept  with  such  sweet  privacy, 

That  they  seldom  meet  the  eye 

Of  the  little  loves  that  fly 

Round  about  with  eager  pry. 

Saving  when,  with  freshening  lave, 

Thou  dipp'st  them  in  the  taintless  wave ; 

Like  twin  water  lillies,  born 

In  the  coolness  of  the  morn. 

O,  if  thou  hadst  breathed  then, 

Now  the  Muses  had  been  ten. 

Couldst  thou  wish  for  lineage  higher 


1 8  POEMS. 

Than  twin  sister  of  Thalia? 
At  least  for  ever,  evermore, 
Will  I  call  the  Graces  four. 

Hadst  thou  liv'd  when  chivalry 

Lifted  up  her  lance  on  high, 

Tell  me  what  thou  wouldst  have  been  ? 

Ah !  I  see  the  silver  sheen 

Of  thy  broidered,  floating  vest 

Cov'ring  half  thine  ivory  breast ; 

Which,  O  heavens!  I  should  see, 

But  that  cruel  destiny 

Has  placed  a  golden  cuirass  there  ; 

Keeping  secret  what  is  fair. 

Like  sunbeams  in  a  cloudlet  nested 

Thy  locks  in  knightly  casque  are  rested ; 

O'er  which  bend  four  milky  plumes 

Like  the  gentle  lilly's  blooms 

Springing  from  a  costly  vase. 

See  with  what  a  stately  pace 

Comes  thine  alabaster  steed ; 

Servant  of  heroic  deed ! 

O'er  his  loins,  his  trappings  glow 

Like  the  northern  lights  on  snow. 

Mount  his  back!  thy  sword  unsheath! 

Sign  of  the  enchanter's  death  ; 

Bane  of  every  wicked  spell ; 

Silencer  of  dragon's  yell. 

Alas !  thou  this  wilt  never  do : 

Thou  art  an  enchantress  too, 

And  wilt  surely  never  spill 

Blood  of  those  whose  eyes  can  kill. 


TO   HOPE. 

WHEN  by  my  solitary  hearth  I  sit, 

And  hateful  thoughts  enwrap  my  soul  in  gloom ; 
When  no  fair  dreams  before  my  "  mind's  eye"  flit, 

And  the  bare  heath  of  life  presents  no  bloom ; 


POEMS.  19 

Sweet  Hope,  ethereal  balm  upon  me  shed, 
And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 

Whene'er  I  wander,  at  the  fall  of  night, 
Where  woven  boughs  shut  out  the  moon's  bright 

ray, 

Should  sad  Despondency  my  musings  fright, 
And  frown,  to  drive  fair  Cheerfulness  away, 

Peep  with  the  moon-beams  through   the  leafy 

roof, 
And  keep  that  fiend  Despondence  far  aloof. 

Should  Disappointment,  parent  of  Despair, 

Strive  for  her  son  to  seize  my  careless  heart ; 
When,  like  a  cloud,  he  sits  upon  the  air, 
Preparing  on  his  spell-bound  prey  to  dart : 

Chase  him  away,  sweet  Hope,  with  visage  bright. 
And  fright  him  as  the  morning  frightens  night ! 

Whene'er  the  fate  of  those  I  hold  most  dear 
Tells  to  my  fearful  breast  a  tale  of  sorrow, 
O  bright-eyed  Hope,  my  morbid  fancy  cheer ; 
Let  me  awhile  thy  sweetest  comforts  borrow : 
Thy  heaven-born  radiance  around  me  shed, 
And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head ! 

Should  e'er  unhappy  love  my  bosom  pain, 

From  cruel  parents,  or  relentless  fair ; 
O  let  me  think  it  is  not  quite  in  vain 

To  sigh  out  sonnets  to  the  midnight  air! 
Sweet  Hope,  ethereal  balm  upon  me  shed, 
And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head! 

In  the  long  vista  of  the  years  to  roll, 

Let  me  not  see  our  country's  honor  fade : 
O  let  me  see  our  land  retain  her  soul, 

Her  pride,  her  freedom ;  and  not  freedom's  shade. 
From  thy  bright  eyes  unusual  brightness  shed  — 
Beneath  thy  pinions  canopy  my  head! 


20  POEMS. 

Let  me  not  see  the  patriot's  high  bequest, 

Great  Liberty!  how  great  in  plain  attire! 
With  the  base  purple  of  a  court  oppressed, 
Bowing  her  head,  and  ready  to  expire  : 
But  let  me  see  thee  stoop  from  heaven  on  wings 
That  fill  the  skies  with  silver  glitterings ! 

And  as,  in  sparkling  majesty,  a  star 

Gilds  the  bright  summit  of  some  gloomy  cloud ; 
Brightening  the  half  veil'd  face  of  heaven  afar : 
So,  when  dark  thoughts  my  boding  spirit  shroud, 
Sweet  Hope,  celestial  influence  round  me  shed. 
Waving  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 
February,  1815. 


IMITATION   OF   SPENSER. 


Now  Morning  from  her  orient  chamber  came, 
And  her  first  footsteps  touch'd  a  verdant  hill ; 
Crowning  its  lawny  crest  with  amber  flame, 
SuVring  the  untainted  gushes  of  its  rill ; 
Which,  pure  from  mossy  beds,  did  down  distill, 
And  after  parting  beds  of  simple  flowers, 
By  many  streams  a  little  lake  did  fill, 
Which  round  its  marge  reflected  woven  bowers, 
And,  in  its  middle  space,  a  sky  that  never  lowers 

There  the  king-fisher  saw  his  plumage  bright 
Vicing  with  fish  of  brilliant  dye  below  ; 
Whose  silken  fins,  and  golden  scales'  light 
Cast  upward,  through  the  waves,  a  ruby  glow 
There  saw  the  swan  his  neck  of  arched  snow 
And  oar'd  himself  along  with  majesty ; 
Sparkled  his  jetty  eyes  ;  his  feet  did  show 
Beneath  the  waves  like  Afric's  ebony, 
And  on  his  back  a  fay  reclined  voluptuously. 


POEMS.  21 

Ah !  could  I  tell  the  wonders  of  an  isle 
That  in  that  fairest  lake  had  placed  been, 
I  could  e'en  Dido  of  her  grief  beguile  ; 
Or  rob  from  aged  Lear  his  bitter  teen  : 
For  sure  so  fair  a  place  was  never  seen, 
Of  all  that  ever  charm'd  romantic  eye : 
It  seem'd  an  emerald  in  the  silver  sheen 
Of  the  bright  waters  ;  or  as  when  on  high, 
Through  clouds  of  fleecy  white,  laughs  the  ccerulean 
sky. 

/ 

And  all  around  it  dipp'd  luxuriously 
Slopings  of  verdure  through  the  glossy  tide, 
Which,  as  it  were  in  gentle  amity, 
Rippled  delighted  up  the  flowery  side ; 
As  if  to  glean  the  ruddy  tears,  it  tried, 
Which  fell  profusely  from  the  rose-tree  stem. 
Haply  it  was  the  workings  of  its  pride, 
In  strife  to  throw  upon  the  shore  a  gem 
Outvieing  all  the  buds  in  Flora's  diadem. 


WOMAN!  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain, 

Inconstant,  childish,  proud,  and  full  of  fancies  ; 

Without  that  modest  softening  that  enhances 
The  downcast  eye,  repentant  of  the  pain 
That  its  mild  light  creates  to  heal  again  : 

E'en  then,  elate,  my  spirit  leaps,  and  prances, 

E'en  then  my  soul  with  exultation  dances 
For  that  to  love,  so  long,  I've  dormant  lain : 
But  when  I  see  thee  meek,  and  kind,  and  tender. 

Heavens!  how  desperately  do  I  adore 
Thy  winning  graces  ;  —  to  be  thy  defender 

I  hotly  burn  —  to  be  a  Calidore  — 
A  very  Red  Cross  Knight  —  a  stout  Leander^- 

Might  I  be  loved  by  thee  like  these  of  yore. 


22  POEMS. 

Light  feet,  dark  violet  eyes,  and  parted  hair ; 

Soft  dimpled  hands,  white  neck,  and  creamy  breast, 

Are  things  on  which  the  dazzled  senses  rest 
Till  the  fond,  fixed  eyes,  forget  they  stare. 
From  such  fine  pictures,  heavens !  I  cannot  dare 

To  turn  my  admiration,  though  unpossess'd 

They  be  of  what  is  worthy,  —  though  not  drest 
In  lovely  modesty,  and  virtues  rare. 
Yet  these  I  leave  as  thoughtless  as  a  lark ; 

These  lures  I  straight  forget,  —  e'en  ere  I  dine, 
Or  thrice  my  palate  moisten :  but  when  I  mark 

Such  charms  with  mild  intelligences  shine, 
My  ear  is  open  like  a  greedy  shark. 

To  catch  the  tunings  of  a  voice  divine. 

Ah!  who  can  e'er  forget  so  fair  a  being? 

Who  can  forget  her  half  retiring  sweets? 

God!  she  is  like  a  milk-white  lamb  that  bleats 
For  man's  protection.     Surely  the  All-seeing, 
Who  joys  to  see  us  with  his  gifts  agreeing, 

Will  never  give  him  pinions,  who  intreats 

Such  innocence  to  ruin,  —  who  vilely  cheats 
A  dove-like  bosom.     In  truth  there  is  no  freeing 
One's  thoughts  from  such  a  beauty ;  when  I  hear 

A  lay  that  once  I  saw  her  hand  awake, 
Her  form  seems  floating  palpable,  and  near ; 

Had  I  e'er  seen  her  from  an  arbor  take 
A  dewy  flower,  oft  would  that  hand  appear, 

And  o'er  my  eyes  the  trembling  moisture  shake. 


EPISTLES. 


"  Among  the  rest  a  shepheard  (though  but  young 
"  Yet  hartned  to  his  pipe)  with  all  the  skill 
"  His  few  yeeres  could,  began  to  fit  his  quill." 

Britannia's  Pastorals.  —  BROWNE. 

TO  GEORGE  FELTON  MATHEW. 

SWEET  are  the  pleasures  that  to  verse  belong, 

And  doubly  sweet  a  brotherhood  in  song ; 

Nor  can  remembrance,  Mathew!  bring  to  view 

A  fate  more  pleasing,  a  delight  more  true 

Than  that  in  which  the  brother  Poets  joy'd, 

Who  with  combined  powers,  their  wit  employ'd 

To  raise  a  trophy  to  the  drama's  muses. 

The  thought  of  this  great  partnership  diffuses 

Over  the  genius  loving  heart,  a  feeling 

Of  all  that's  high,  and  great,  and  good,  and  healing. 

Too  partial  friend !  fain  would  I  follow  thee 
Past  each  horizon  of  fine  poesy ; 
Fain  would  I  echo  back  each  pleasant  note 
As  o'er  Sicilian  seas,  clear  anthems  float 
'Mong  the  light  skimming  gondolas  far  parted, 
Just  when  the  sun  his  farewell  beam  has  darted : 
But  'tis  impossible  ;  far  different  cares 
Beckon  me  sternly  from  soft  "  Lydian  airs," 
And  hold  my  faculties  so  long  in  thrall, 
That  I  am  oft  in  doubt  whether  at  all 
I  shall  again  see  Phoebus  in  the  morning : 
Or  flush'd  Aurora  in  the  roseate  dawning! 

23 


24  EPISTLES. 

Or  a  white  Naiad  in  a  rippling  stream ; 
Or  a  rapt  seraph  in  a  moonlight  beam  ; 
Or  again  witness  what  with  thee  I've  seen, 
The  dew  by  fairy  feet  swept  from  the  green, 
After  a  night  of  some  quaint  jubilee 
Which  every  elf  and  fay  had  come  to  see : 
When  bright  processions  took  their  airy  march 
Beneath  the  curved  moon's  triumphal  arch. 

But  might  I  now  each  passing  moment  give 

To  the  coy  muse,  with  me  she  would  not  live 

In  this  dark  city,  nor  would  condescend 

'Mid  contradictions  her  delights  to  lend. 

Should  e'er  the  fine-eyed  maid  to  me  be  kind, 

Ah  !  surely  it  must  be  whene'er  I  find 

Some  flowery  spot,  sequester'd,  wild,  romantic, 

That  often  must  have  seen  a  poet  frantic ; 

Where  oaks,  that  erst  the  Druid  knew,  are  growing, 

And  flowers,  the  glory  of  one  day,  are  blowing ; 

Where  the  dark-leav'd  laburnum's  drooping  clusters 

Reflect  athwart  the  stream  their  yellow  lustres, 

And  intertwined  the  cassia's  arms  unite. 

With  its  own  drooping  buds,  but  very  white. 

Where  on  one  side  are  covert  branches  hung, 

'Mong  which  the  nightingales  have  always  sung 

In  leafy  quiet ;  where  to  pry,  aloof, 

Atween  the  pillars  of  the  sylvan  roof, 

Would  be  to  find  where  violet  beds  were  nestling. 

And  where  the  bee  with  cowslip  bells  was  wrestling. 

There  must  be  too  a  ruin  dark,  and  gloomy, 

To  say  ''joy  not  too  much  in  all  that's  bloomy." 

Yet  this  is  vain  —  O  Mathew  lend  thy  aid 

To  find  a  place  where  I  may  greet  the  maid  — 

Where  we  may  soft  humanity  put  on, 

And  sit,  and  rhyme  and  think  on  Chatterton  ; 

And  that  warm-hearted  Shakspeare  sent  to  meet  him 

Four  laurell'd  spirits,  heaven-ward  to  intreat  him. 

With  reverence  would  we  speak  of  all  the  sages 


EPISTLES.  25 

Who  have  left  streaks  of  light  athwart  their  ages  : 
And  thou  shouldst  moralize  on  Milton's  blindness, 
And  mourn  the  fearful  dearth  of  human  kindness 
To  those  who  strove  with  the  bright  golden  wing 
Of  genius,  to  flap  away  each  sting 
Thrown  by  the  pitiless  world.     We  next  could  tell 
Of  those  who  in  the  cause  of  freedom  fell ; 
Of  our  own  Alfred,  of  Helvetian  Tell ; 
Of  him  whose  name  to  ev'ry  heart's  a  solace, 
High-minded  and  unbending  William  Wallace. 
While  to  the  rugged  north  our  musing  turns 
We  well  might 'drop  a  tear  for  him,  and  Burns. 

Felton!  without  incitements  such  as  these, 
How  vain  for  me  the  niggard  Muse  to  tease : 
For  thee,  she  will  thy  every  dwelling  grace, 
And  make  "  a  sunshine  in  a  shady  place  :  " 
For  thou  wast  once  a  flowret  blooming  wild, 
Close  to  the  source,  bright,  pure,  and  undefiTd, 
Whence  gush  the  streams  of  song :  in  happy  hour 
Came  chaste  Diana  from  her  shady  bower, 
Just  as  the  sun  was  from  the  east  uprising ; 
And,  as  for  him  some  gift  she  was  devising, 
Beheld  thee,  pluck'd  thee,  cast  thee  in  the  stream 
To  meet  her  glorious  brother's  greeting  beam. 
I  marvel  much  that  thou  hast  never  told 
How,  from  a  flower,  into  a  fish  of  gold 
Apollo  chang'd  thee ;  how  thou  next  didst  seem 
A  black-eyed  swan  upon  the  widening  stream  ; 
And  when  thou  first  didst  in  that  mirror  trace 
The  placid  features  of  a  human  face  : 
That  thou  hast  never  told  thy  travels  strange, 
And  all  the  wonders  of  the  mazy  range 
O'er  pebbly  crystal,  and  o'er  golden  sands ; 
Kissing  thy  daily  food  from  Naiad's  pearly  hands. 

November,  1815. 


26  EPISTLES. 


TO   MY   BROTHER  GEORGE. 

FULL  many  a  dreary  hour  have  I  past, 

My  brain  bewildered,  and  my  mind  o'ercast 

With  heaviness  ;  in  seasons  when  I've  thought 

No  spherey  strains  by  me  could  e'er  be  caught 

From  the  blue  dome,  though  I  to  dimness  gaze 

On  the  far  depth  where  sheeted  lightning  plays ; 

Or,  on  the  wavy  grass  outstretch'd  supinely, 

Pry  'mong  the  stars,  to  strive  to  think  divinely : 

That  I  should  never  hear  Apollo's  song, 

Though  feathery  clouds  were  floating  all  along 

The  purple  west,  and,  two  bright  streaks  between, 

The  golden  lyre  itself  were  dimly  seen  : 

That  the  still  murmur  of  the  honey  bee 

Would  never  teach  a  rural  song  to  me : 

That  the  bright  glance  from  beauty's  eyelids  slanting 

Would  never  make  a  lay  of  mine  enchanting, 

Or  warm  my  breast  with  ardor  to  unfold 

Some  tale  of  love  and  arms  in  time  of  old. 

But  there  are  times,  when  those  that  love  the  bay, 

Fly  from  all  sorrowing  far,  far  away  ; 

A  sudden  glow  comes  on  them,  nought  they  see 

In  water,  earth,  or  air,  but  poesy. 

It  has  been  said,  dear  George,  and  true  I  hold  it, 

(For  knightly  Spenser  to  Libertas  told  it,) 

That  when  a  Poet  is  in  such  a  trance, 

In  air  he  sees  white  coursers  paw,  and  prance, 

Bestridden  of  gay  knights,  in  gay  apparel, 

Who  at  each  other  tilt  in  playful  quarrel, 

And  what  we,  ignorantly,  sheet-lightning  call, 

Is  the  swift  opening  of  their  wide  portal, 

When  the  bright  warder  blows  his  trumpet  clear, 

Whose  tones  reach  nought  on  earth  but  Poet's  ear. 

When  these  enchanted  portals  open  wide, 

And  through  the  light  the  horsemen  swiftly  glide, 

The  Poet's  eye  can  reach  those  golden  halls, 

And  view  the  glory  of  their  festivals : 


EPISTLES.  27 

Their  ladies  fair,  that  in  the  distance  seem 
Fit  for  the  silv'ring  of  a  seraph's  dream ; 
Their  rich  brimm'd  goblets,  that  incessant  run 
Like  the  bright  spots  that  move  about  the  sun ; 
And,  when  upheld,  the  wine  from  each  bright  jar 
Pours  with  the  lustre  of  a  falling  star. 
Yet  further  off,  are  dimly  seen  their  bowers, 
Of  which,  no  mortal  eye  can  reach  the  flowers ; 
And  'tis  right  just,  for  well  Apollo  knows 
'Twould  make  the  Poet  quarrel  with  the  rose. 
All  that's  reveal'd  from  that  far  seat  of  blisses, 
Is,  the  clear  fountains'  interchanging  kisses, 
As  gracefully  descending,  light  and  thin, 
Like  silver  streaks  across  a  dolphin's  fin, 
When  he  upswimmeth  from  the  coral  caves, 
And  sports  with  half  his  tail  above  the  waves. 

These  wonders  strange  he  sees,  and  many  more, 

Whose  head  is  pregnant  with  poetic  lore. 

Should  he  upon  an  evening  ramble  fare 

With  forehead  to  the  soothing  breezes  bare, 

Would  he  naught  see  but  the  dark,  silent  blue 

With  all  its  diamonds  trembling  through  and  through  ? 

Or  the  coy  moon,  when  in  the  waviness 

Of  whitest  clouds  she  does  her  beauty  dress, 

And  staidly  paces  higher  up,  and  higher, 

Like  a  sweet  nun  in  holy-day  attire  ? 

Ah,  yes !  much  more  would  start  into  his  sight  — 

The  revelries,  and  mysteries  of  night : 

And  should  I  ever  see  them,  I  will  tell  you 

Such  tales  as  needs  must  with  amazement  spell  you. 

These  are  the  living  pleasures  of  the  bard  : 

But  richer  far  posterity's  award. 

What  does  he  murmur  with  his  latest  breath, 

While  his  proud  eye  looks  through  the  film  of  death  ? 

u  What  though  I  leave  this  dull,  and  earthly  mould, 

"  Yet  shall  my  spirit  lofty  converse  hold 

"With  after  times.  —  The  patriot  shall  feel 

"  My  stern  alarum,  and  unsheath  his  steel ; 


28  EPISTLES. 

"  Or,  in  the  senate  thunder  out  my  numbers 
"  To  startle  princes  from  their  easy  slumbers. 
"  The  sage  will  mingle  with  each  moral  theme 
"  My  happy  thoughts  sententious  ;  he  will  teem 
"With  lofty  periods  when  my  verses  fire  him, 
"  And  then  I'll  stoop  from  heaven  to  inspire  him. 
"  Lays  have  I  left  of  such  a  dear  delight 
"That  maids  will  sing  them  on  their  bridal  night. 
"  Gay  villagers,  upon  a  morn  of  May, 
"  When  they  have  tired  their  gentle  limbs  with  play 
"  And  form'd  a  snowy  circle  on  the  grass. 
"  And  plac'd  in  midst  of  all  that  lovely  lass 
"Who  chosen  is  their  queen,  —  with  her  fine  head 
"  Crowned  with  flowers  purple,  white,  and  red  : 
"For  there  the  lily,  and  the  musk-rose,  sighing, 
"  Are  emblems  true  of  hapless  lovers  dying : 
"  Between  her  breasts,  that  never  yet  felt  trouble, 
"  A  bunch  of  violets  full  blown,  and  double, 
u  Serenely  sleep  :  —  she  from  a  casket  takes 
"  A  little  book,  —  and  then  a  joy  awakes 
"  About  each  youthful  heart,  —  with  stifled  cries, 
"  And  rubbing  of  white  hands,  and  sparkling  eyes ; 
"  For  she's  to  read  a  tale  of  hopes,  and  fears  ; 
"  One  that  I  foster'd  in  my  youthful  years  : 
'The  pearls,  'that  on  each  glist'ning  circlet  sleep, 
'  Gush  ever  and  anon  with  silent  creep, 
'  Lured  by  the  innocent  dimples.     To  sweet  rest 
'  Shall  the  dear  babe,  upon  its  mother's  breast, 
'  Be  lull'd  with  songs  of  mine.     Fair  world,  adieu! 
"  Thy  dales,  and  hills,  are  fading  from  my  view : 
"  Swiftly  I  mount,  upon  wide  spreading  pinions, 
"  Far  from  the  narrow  bounds  of  thy  dominions. 
"  Full  joy  I  feel,  while  thus  I  cleave  the  air, 
"  That  my  soft  verse  will  charm  thy  daughters  fair, 
"And  warm   thy  sons!"     Ah,  my  dear  friend   and 

brother, 

Could  I,  at  once,  my  mad  ambition  smother, 
For  tasting  joys  like  these,  sure  I  should  be 
Happier,  and  dearer  to  society. 


EPISTLES.  29 

At  times,  'tis  true,  I've  felt  relief  from  pain 

When  some  bright  thought  has  darted  through  my 

brain: 

Through  all  that  day  I've  felt  a  greater  pleasure 
Than  if  I'd  brought  to  light  a  hidden  treasure. 
As  to  my  sonnets,  though  none  else  should  heed  them, 
I  feel  delighted,  still,  that  you  should  read  them. 
Of  late,  too,  I  have  had  much  calm  enjoyment, 
Stretch'd  on  the  grass  at  my  best  lov'd  employment 
Of  scribbling  lines  for  you.     These  things  I  thought 
While,  in  my  face,  the  freshest  breeze  I  caught. 
E'en  now  I'm  pillow'd  on  a  bed  of  flowers 
That  crowns 'a  lofty  clift,  which  proudly  towers 
Above  the  ocean-waves.     The  stalks,  and  blades, 
Chequer  my  tablet  with  their  quivering  shades. 
On  one  side  is  a  field  of  drooping  oats, 
Through  which  the  poppies  show  their  scarlet  coats ; 
So  pert  and  useless,  that  they  bring  to  mind 
The  scarlet  coats  that  pester  human-kind. 
And  on  the  other  side,  outspread,  is  seen 
Ocean's  blue  mantle  streak'd  with  purple,  and  green 
Now  'tis  I  see  a  canvass'd  ship,  and  now 
Mark  the  bright  silver  curling  round  her  prow. 
I  see  the  lark  down-dropping  to  his  nest, 
And  the  broad  winged  sea-gull  never  at  rest ; 
For  when  no  more  he  spreads  his  feathers  free, 
His  breast  is  dancing  on  the  restless  sea. 
Now  I  direct  my  eyes  into  the  west, 
Which  at  this  moment  is  in  sunbeams  drest : 
Why  westward  turn?     'Twas  but  to  say  adieu! 
'Twas  but  to  kiss  my  hand,  dear  George,  to  you! 

August,  1816. 


30  EPISTLES. 


TO   CHARLES   COWDEN   CLARKE. 

OFT  have  you  seen  a  swan  superbly  frowning, 
And  with  proud  breast  his  own  white  shadow  crown- 
ing; 

He  slants  his  neck  beneath  the  waters  bright 
So  silently,  it  seems  a  beam  of  light 
Come  from  the  galaxy  :  anon  he  sports,  — 
With  outspread  wings  the  Naiad  Zephyr  courts, 
Or  ruffles  all  the  surface  of  the  lake 
In  striving  from  its  crystal  face  to  take 
Some  diamond  water  drops,  and  them  to  treasure 
In  milky  nest,  and  sip  them  off  at  leisure. 
But  not  a  moment  can  he  there  insure  them, 
Nor  to  such  downy  rest  can  he  allure  them ; 
For  down  they  rush  as  though  they  would  be  free, 
And  drop  like  hours  into  eternity. 
Just  like  that  bird  am  I  in  loss  of  time, 
Whene'er  I  venture  on  the  stream  of  rhyme ; 
With  shattered  boat,  oar  snapt,  and  canvass  rent, 
I  slowly  sail,  scarce  knowing  my  intent ; 
Still  scooping  up  the  water  with  my  fingers, 
In  which  a  trembling  diamond  never  lingers. 

By  this,  friend  Charles,  you  may  full  plainly  see 
Why  I  have  never  penn'd  a  line  to  thee  : 
Because  my  thoughts  were  never  free,  and  clear, 
And  little  fit  to  please  a  classic  ear ; 
Because  my  wine  was  of  too  poor  a  savor 
For  one  whose  palate  gladdens  in  the  flavor 
Of  sparkling  Helicon  :  —  small  good  it  were 
To  take  him  to  a  desert  rude,  and  bare, 
Who  had  on  Baias's  shore  reclin'd  at  ease, 
While  Tasso's  page  was  floating  in  a  breeze 
That  gave  soft  music  from  Armida's  bowers, 
Mingled  with  fragrance  from  her  rarest  flowers : 
Small  good  to  one  who  had  by  Mulla's  stream 
Fondled  the  maidens  with  the  breasts  of  cream ; 


EPISTLES.  31 

Who  had  beheld  Belphoebe  in  a  brook, 
And  lovely  Una  in  a  leafy  nook, 
And  Archimago  leaning  o'er  his  book  : 
Who  had  of  all  that's  sweet  tasted,  and  seen, 
From  silv'ry  ripple,  up  to  beauty's  queen ; 
From  the  sequester'd  haunts  of  gay  Titania, 
To  the  blue  dwelling  of  divine  Urania : 
One,  who,  of  late,  had  ta'en  sweet  forest  walks 
With  him  who  elegantly  chats,  and  talks  — 
The  wrong'd  Libertas,  —  who  has  told  you  stories 
Of  laurel  chaplets,  and  Apollo's  glories ; 
Of  troops  chivalrous  prancing  through  a  city, 
And  tearful  ladies  made  for  love,  and  pity : 
With  many  else  which  I  have  never  known. 
Thus  have  I  thought ;  and  days  on  days  have  flown 
Slowly,  or  rapidly  —  unwilling  still 
For  you  to  try  my  dull,  unlearned  quill. 
Nor  should  I  now,  but  that  I've  known  you  long; 
That  you  first  taught  me  all  the  sweets  of  song : 
The  grand,  the  sweet,  the  terse,  the  free,  the  fine ; 
What  swell'd  with  pathos,  and  what  right  divine : 
Spenserian  vowels  that  elope  with  ease, 
And  float  along  like  birds  o'er  summer  seas ; 
Miltonian  storms,  and  more,  Miltonian  tenderness ; 
Michael  in  arms,  and  more,  meek  Eve's  fair  slender- 
ness. 

Who  read  for  me  the  sonnet  swelling  loudly 
Up  to  its  climax  and  then  dying  proudly? 
Who  found  for  me  the  grandeur  of  the  ode, 
Growing,  like  Atlas,  stronger  from  its  load? 
Who  let  me  taste  that  more  than  cordial  dram, 
The  sharp,  the  rapier-pointed  epigram? 
Shew'd  me  that  epic  was  of  all  the  king, 
Round,  vast,  and  spanning  all  like  Saturn's  ring? 
You  too  upheld  the  veil  from  Clio's  beauty, 
And  pointed  out  the  patriot's  stern  duty ; 
The  might  of  Alfred,  and  the  shaft  of  Tell ; 
The  hand  of  Brutus,  that  so  grandly  fell 
Upon  a  tyrant's  head.     Ah !  had  I  never  seen, 


32  EPTSTLES. 

Or  known  your  kindness,  what  might  I  have  been? 

What  my  enjoyments  in  my  youthful  years, 

Bereft  of  all  that  now  my  life  endears  ? 

And  can  I  e'er  these  benefits  forget  ? 

And  can  I  e'er  repay  the  friendly  debt  ? 

No,  doubly  no ;  —  yet  should  these  rhymings  please, 

I  shall  roll  on  the  grass  with  two-fold  ease : 

For  I  have  long  time  been  my  fancy  feeding 

With  hopes  that  you  would  one  day  think  the  reading 

Of  my  rough  verses  not  an  hour  mis  [s]  pent ; 

Should  it  e'er  be  so,  what  a  rich  content! 

Some  weeks  have  pass'd  since  last  I  saw  the  spires 

In  lucent  Thames  reflected  :  —  warm  desires 

To  see  the  sun  o'er  peep  the  eastern  dimness. 

And  morning  shadows  streaking  into  slimness 

Across  the  lawny  fields,  and  pebbly  water ; 

To  mark  the  time  as  they  grow  broad,  and  shorter ; 

To  feel  the  air  that  plays  about  the  hills, 

And  sips  its  freshness  from  the  little  rills ; 

To  see  high,  golden  corn  wave  in  the  light 

When  Cynthia  smiles  upon  a  summer's  night. 

And  peers  among  the  cloudlet's  jet  and  white, 

As  though  she  were  reclining  in  a  bed 

Of  bean  blossoms,  in  heaven  freshly  shed. 

No  sooner  had  I  stepp'd  into  these  pleasures 

Than  I  began  to  think  of  rhymes  and  measures : 

The  air  that  floated  by  me  seem'd  to  say 

"  Write!  thou  wilt  never  have  a  better  day." 

And  so  I  did.     When  many  lines  I'd  written, 

Though  with  their  grace  I  was  not  oversmitten, 

Yet,  as  my  hand  was  warm,  I  thought  I'd  better 

Trust  to  my  feelings,  and  write  you  a  letter. 

Such  an  attempt  required  an  inspiration 

Of  a  peculiar  sort,  —  a  consummation  ;  — 

Which,  had  I  felt,  these  scribblings  might  have  been 

Verses  from  which  the  soul  would  never  wean : 

But  many  days  have  past  since  last  my  heart 

Was  warm'd  luxuriously  by  divine  Mozart ; 


EPISTLES.  33 

By  Arne  delighted,  or  by  Handel  madden'd ; 

Or  by  the  song  of  Erin  pierc'd  and  sadden'd : 

What  time  you  were  before  the  music  sitting, 

And  the  rich  notes  to  each  sensation  fitting. 

Since  I  have  walk'd  with  you  through  shady  lanes 

That  freshly  terminate  in  open  plains, 

And  revel'd  in  a  chat  that  ceased  not 

When  at  night-fall  among  your  books  we  got : 

No,  nor  when  supper  came,  nor  after  that,  — 

Nor  when  reluctantly  I  took  my  hat ; 

No,  nor  till  cordially  you  shook  my  hand 

Mid-way  between  our  homes  :  — your  accents  bland 

Still  sounded  in  my  ears,  when  I  no  more 

Could  hear  your  footsteps  touch  the  grav'ly  floor. 

Sometimes  I  lost  them,  and  then  found  again ; 

You  chang'd  the  footpath  for  the  grassy  plain. 

In  those  still  moments  I  have  wish'd  you  joys 

That  well  you  know  to  honor :  —  "  Life's  very  toys 

"  With  him,"  said  I,  "  will  take  a  pleasant  charm ; 

"  It  cannot  be  that  ought  will  work  him  harm." 

These   thoughts   now   come  o'er   me   with   all  their 

might :  — 
Again  I  shake  your  hand, —  friend  Charles,  good  night. 

September,  1816. 


SONNETS. 


i. 

TO   MY   BROTHER   GEORGE. 

MANY  the  wonders  I  this  day  have  seen  : 
The  sun,  when  first  he  kist  away  the  tears 
That  fill'd  the  eyes  of  morn  ;  —  the  laurel'd  peers 

Who  from  the  feathery  gold  of  evening  lean  ;  — 

The  ocean  with  its  vastness,  its  blue  green, 

Its  ships,  its  rocks,  its  caves,  its  hopes,  its  fears,  - 
Its  voice  mysterious,  which  whoso  hears 

Must  think  on  what  will  be,  and  what  has  been. 

E'en  now,  dear  George,  while  this  for  you  I  write, 
Cynthia  is  from  her  silken  curtains  peeping 

So  scantly,  that  it  seems  her  bridal  night. 
And  she  her  half-discover'd  revels  keeping. 

But  what,  without  the  social  thought  of  thee, 

Would  be  the  wonders  of  the  sky  and  sea? 

34 


SONNETS.  35 

n. 
TO   ***»»* 


HAD  I  a  man's  fair  form,  then  might  my  sighs 
Be  echoed  swiftly  through  that  ivory  shell 
Thine  ear,  and  find  thy  gentle  heart ;  so  well 

Would  passion  arm  me  for  the  enterprize : 

But  ah!  I  am  no  knight  whose  foeman  dies ; 
No  cuirass  glistens  on  my  bosom's  swell ; 
I  am  no  happy  shepherd  of  the  dell 

Whose  lips  have  trembled  with  a  maiden's  eyes. 

Yet  must  I  dote  upon  thee,  —  call  thee  sweet, 
Sweeter  by  far  than  Hybla's  honied  roses 
When  steep'd  in  dew  rich  to  intoxication. 

Ah!  I  wil.  taste  that  dew,  for  me  'tis  meet, 
And  when  the  moon  her  pallid  face  discloses, 
I'll  gather  some  by  spells,  and  incantation. 


in. 

Written  on  the  day  that  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  left  Prison 

WHAT  though,  for  showing  truth  to  flatter'd  state, 

Kind  Hunt  was  shut  in  prison,  yet  has  he, 

In  his  immortal  spirit,  been  as  free 
As  the  sky-searching  lark,  and  as  elate. 
Minion  of  grandeur!  think  you  he  did  wait? 

Think  you  he  nought  but  prison  walls  did  see, 

Till,  so  unwilling,  thou  unturn'dst  the  key? 
Ah,  no!  far  happier,  nobler  was  his  fate! 
In  Spenser's  halls  he  strayed,  and  bowers  fair, 

Culling  enchanted  flowers ;  and  he  flew 
With  daring  Milton  through  the  fields  of  air : 

To  regions  of  his  own  his  genius  true 
Took  happy  flights.     Who  shall  his  fame  impair 

When  thou  art  dead,  and  all  thy  wretched  crew? 


36  SONNETS. 


IV. 

How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses  of  time  ! 

A  few  of  them  have  ever  been  the  food 

Of  my  delighted  fancy,  —  I  could  brood 
Over  their  beauties,  earthly,  or  sublime  : 
And  often,  when  I  sit  me  down  to  rhyme, 

These  will  in  throngs  before  my  mind  intrude1 

But  no  confusion,  no  disturbance  rude 
Do  they  occasion  ;  'tis  a  pleasing  chime. 
So  the  unnumberM  sounds  that  evening  store  ; 

The  songs  of  birds  —  the  whisp'ring.of  the  leaves  — 
The  voice  of  waters  —  the  great  bell  that  heaves 

With  solemn  sound,  —  and  thousand  others  more, 
That  distance  of  recognizance  bereaves, 

Make  pleasing  music,  and  not  wild  uproar. 


v. 

To  a  Friend  who  sent  me  some  Roses. 

As  late  I  rambled  in  the  happy  fields, 

What  time  the  sky-lark  shakes  the  tremulous  dew 

From  his  lush  clover  covert ;  —  when  anew 
Adventurous  knights  take  up  their  dinted  shields  : 
I  saw  the  sweetest  flower  wild  nature  yields, 

A  fresh-blown  musk-rose  ;  'twas  the  first  that  threw 

Its  sweets  upon  the  summer :  graceful  it  grew 
As  is  the  wand  that  queen  Titania  wields. 
And,  as  I  feasted  on  its  fragrancy, 

I  thought  the  garden-rose  it  far  excell'd  : 
But  when,  O  Wells!  thy  roses  came  to  me 

My  sense  with  their  deliciousness  was  spell'd  : 
Soft  voices  had  they,  that  with  tender  plea 

Whisper'd  of  peace,  and  truth,  and  friendliness  un- 
quell'd. 


SONNETS.  37 

VI. 

TO   G.  A.  W. 

NYMPH  of  the  downward  smile,  and  sidelong  glance: 

In  what  diviner  moments  of  the  day 

Art  thou  most  lovely?     When  gone  far  astray 
Into  the  labyrinths  of  sweet  utterance? 
Or  when  serenely  wand'ring  in  a  trance 

Of  sober  thought?     Or  when  starting  away, 

With  careless  robe,  to  meet  the  morning  ray, 
Thou  spar'st  the  flowers  in  thy  mazy  dance? 
Haply  'tis  when  thy  ruby  lips  part  sweetly, 

And  so  remain,  because  thou  listenest : 
But  thou  to  please  wert  nurtured  so  completely 

That  I  can  never  tell  what  mood  is  best. 
I  shall  as  soon  pronounce  which  grace  more  neatly 

Trips  it  before  Apollo  than  the  rest. 


VII. 

O  SOLITUDE!  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell, 
Let  it  not  be  among  the  jumbled  heap 
Of  murky  buildings  ;  climb  with  me  the  steep,  — 

Nature's  observatory  —  whence  the  dell, 

Its  flowery  slopes,  its  river's  crystal  swell, 
May  seem  a  span  ;  let  me  thy  vigils  keep 
'Mongst  boughs  pavillion'd,  where  the  deer's  swift 
leap 

Startles  the  wild  bee  from  the  fox-glove  bell. 

But  though  I'll  gladly  trace  these  scenes  with  thee, 
Yet  the  sweet  converse  of  an  innocent  mind, 

Whose  words  are  images  of  thoughts  refin'd, 
Is  my  soul's  pleasure  ;  and  it  sure  must  be 

Almost  the  highest  bliss  of  human-kind, 

When  to  thy  haunts  two  kindred  spirits  flee. 


38  SONNETS. 


VIII. 
TO   MY   BROTHERS. 

SMALL,  busy  flames  play  through  the  fresh  laid  coals, 

And  their  faint  cracklings  o'er  our  silence  creep 

Like  whispers  of  the  household  gods  that  keep 
A  gentle  empire  o'er  fraternal  souls. 
And  while,  for  rhymes,  I  search  around  the  poles, 

Your  eyes  are  fix'd,  as  in  poetic  sleep, 

Upon  the  lore  so  voluble  and  deep, 
That  aye  at  fall  of  night  our  care  condoles. 
This  is  your  birth-day  Tom,  and  I  rejoice 

That  thus  it  passes  smoothly,  quietly. 
Many  such  eves  of  gently  whispering  noise 

May  we  together  pass,  and  calmly  try 
What  are  this  world's  true  joys,  —  ere  the  great  voice, 

From  its  fair  face,  shall  bid  our  spirits  fly. 

November  18,  1816. 


IX. 

KEEN,  fitful  gusts  are  whisp'ring  here  and  there 

Among  the  bushes  half  leafless,  and  dry ; 

The  stars  look  very  cold  about  the  sky, 
And  I  have  many  miles  on  foot  to  fare. 
Yet  feel  I  little  of  the  cool  bleak  air, 

Or  of  the  dead  leaves  rustling  drearily, 

Or  of  those  silver  lamps  that  burn  on  high, 
Or  of  the  distance  from  home's  pleasant  lair : 
For  I  am  brimfull  of  the  friendliness 

That  in  a  little  cottage  I  have  found ; 
Of  fair-hair'd  Milton's  eloquent  distress, 

And  all  his  love  for  gentle  Lycid  drown'd ; 
Of  lovely  Laura  in  her  light  green  dress, 

And  faithful  Petrarch  gloriously  crown'd. 


SONNETS.  39 


X. 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
'Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 
And  open  face  of  heaven,  —  to  breathe  a  prayer 

Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 

Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  hearts  content, 
Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 
Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 

And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment  ? 

Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 
Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel,  —  an  eye 

Watching  the  sailing  cloudlet's  bright  career, 
He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by : 

E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 
That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  silently. 


XI. 

On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer. 

MUCH  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold, 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne ; 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold : 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  star'd  at  the  Pacific  —  and  all  his  men 
Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise  — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


4<>  SONNETS. 

XII. 

On  leaving  some  Friends  at  an  early  Hour. 

GIVE  me  a  golden  pen,  and  let  me  lean 
On  heap'd  up  flowers,  in  regions  clear,  and  far ; 
Bring  me  a  tablet  whiter  than  a  star, 

Or  hand  of  hymning  angel,  when  'tis  seen 

The  silvery  strings  of  heavenly  harp  atween  : 
And  let  there  glide  by  many  a  pearly  car. 
Pink  robes,  and  wavy  hair,  and  diamond  jar, 

And  half  discovered  wings,  and  glances  keen. 

The  while  let  music  wander  round  my  ears, 
And  as  it  reaches  each  delicious  ending. 
Let  me  write  down  a  line  of  glorious  tone, 

And  full  of  many  wonders  of  the  spheres  : 
For  what  a  height  my  spirit  is  contending! 
Tis  not  content  so  soon  to  be  alone. 


XIII. 

ADDRESSED   TO   HAYDON. 

HIGHMINDEDNESS,  a  jealousy  for  good, 

A  loving-kindness  for  the  great  man's  fame, 
Dwells  here  and  there  with  people  of  no  name* 

In  noisome  alley,  and  in  pathless  wood  : 

And  where  we  think  the  truth  least  understood, 
Oft  may  be  found  a  "  singleness  of  aim," 
That  ought  to  frighten  into  hooded  shame 

A  money  mong'ring,  pitiable  brood. 

How  glorious  this  affection  for  the  cause 
Of  stedfast  genius,  toiling  gallantly! 

What  when  a  stout  unbending  champion  awes 
Envy,  and  Malice  to  their  native  sty  ? 

Unnumber'd  souls  breathe  out  a  still  applause, 
Proud  to  behold  him  in  his  country's  eye. 


SONNETS.  41 

XIV. 

ADDRESSED   TO   THE   SAME. 

GREAT  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning ; 

He  of  the  cloud,  the  cataract,  the  lake, 

Who  on  Helvellyn's  summit,  wide  awake, 
Catches  his  freshness  from  Archangel's  wing : 
He  of  the  rose,  the  violet,  the  spring, 

The  social  smile,  the  chain  for  Freedom's  sake : 

And  lo !  —  whose  stedfastness  would  never  take 
A  meaner  sound  than  Raphael's  whispering. 
And  other  spirits  there  are  standing  apart 

Upon  the  forehead  of  the  age  to  come  ; 
These,  these  will  give  the  world  another  heart, 

And  other  pulses.     Hear  ye  not  the  hum 
Of  mighty  workings  ? 

Listen  awhile  ye  nations,  and  be  dumb. 


On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket. 

THE  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead : 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead ; 

That  is  the  Grasshopper's  —  he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury,  —  he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights ;  for  when  tired  out  with  fun 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never : 
On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 
The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

December  30,  1816. 


42  SONNETS. 

XVI. 
TO    KOSCIUSKO. 

GOOD  Kosciusko,  thy  great  name  alone 

Is  a  full  harvest  whence  to  reap  high  feeling ; 
It  comes  upon  us  like  the  glorious  pealing 

Of  the  wide  spheres  —  an  everlasting  tone. 

And  now  it  tells  me,  that  in  worlds  unknown, 

The  names  of  heroes,  burst  from  clouds  concealing, 
And  changed  to  harmonies,  for  ever  stealing 

Through  cloudless  blue,  and  round  each  silver  throne. 

It  tells  me  too,  that  on  a  happy  day, 

When  some  good  spirit  walks  upon  the  earth, 
Thy  name  with  Alfred's,  and  the  great  of  yore 

Gently  commingling,  gives  tremendous  birth 

To  a  loud  hymn,  that  sounds  far,  far  away 
To  where  the  great  God  lives  for  evermore. 


XVII. 

HAPPY  is  England  !  I  could  be  content 

To  see  no  other  verdure  than  its  own ; 

To  feel  no  other  breezes  than  are  blown 
Through  its  tall  woods  with  high  romances  blent : 
Yet  do  I  sometimes  feel  a  languishment 

For  skies  Italian,  and  an  inward  groan 

To  sit  upon  an  Alp  as  on  a  throne, 
And  half  forget  what  world  or  worldling  meant. 
Happy  is  England,  sweet  her  artless  daughters  ; 

Enough  their  simple  loveliness  for  me, 

Enough  their  whitest  arms  in  silence  clinging : 

Yet  do  I  often  warmly  burn  to  see 

Beauties  of  deeper  glance,  and  hear  their  singing, 
And  float  with  them  about  the  summer  waters. 


SLEEP  AND    POETRY. 


"  As  I  lay  in  my  bed  slepe  full  unmete 
"  Was  unto  me,  but  why  that  I  ne  might 
"  Rest  I  ne  wist,  for  there  n'as  erthly  wight 
"  [As  I  suppose]  had  more  of  hertis  ese 
"  Than  I,  for  I  n'ad  sicknesse  nor  disese." 

CHAUCER. 

WHAT  is  more  gentle  than  a  wind  in  summer  ? 
What  is  more  soothing  than  the  pretty  hummer 
That  stays  one  moment  in  an  open  flower, 
And  buzzes  cheerily  from  bower  to  bower  ? 
What  is  more  tranquil  than  a  musk-rose  blowing 
In  a  green  island,  far  from  all  men's  knowing? 
More  healthful  than  the  leafiness  of  dales  ? 
More  secret  than  a  nest  of  nightingales  ? 
More  serene  than  Cordelia's  countenance? 
More  full  of  visions  than  a  high  romance  ? 
What,  but  thee  Sleep  ?     Soft  closer  of  our  eyes  ! 
Low  murmurer  of  tender  lullabies  ! 
Light  hoverer  around  our  happy  pillows  ! 
Wreather  of  poppy  buds,  and  weeping  willows  ! 
Silent  entangler  of  a  beauty's  tresses  ! 
Most  happy  listener  !  when  the  morning  blesses 
Thee  for  enlivening  all  the  cheerful  eyes 
That  glance  so  brightly  at  the  new  sun-rise. 

But  what  is  higher  beyond  thought  than  thee? 
Fresher  than  berries  of  a  mountain  tree  ? 

43 


44  SLEEP  AND  POETRY. 

More   strange,  more   beautiful,   more   smooth,  more 

regal, 
Than    wings   of  swans,  than    doves,  than   dim-seen 

eagle  ? 

What  is  it?     And  to  what  shall  I  compare  it? 
It  has  a  glory,  and  nought  else  can  share  it : 
The  thought  thereof  is  awful,  sweet,  and  holy, 
Chacing  away  all  worldliness  and  folly ; 
Coming  sometimes  like  fearful  claps  of  thunder, 
Or  the  low  rumblings  earth's  regions  under ; 
And  sometimes  like  a  gentle  whispering 
Of  all  the  secrets  of  some  wondVous  thing 
That  breathes  about  us  in  the  vacant  air ; 
So  that  we  look  around  with  prying  stare, 
Perhaps  to  see  shapes  of  light,  aerial  lymning, 
And  catch  soft  floatings  from  a  faint-heard  hymning ; 
To  see  the  laurel  wreath,  on  high  suspended, 
That  is  to  crown  our  name  when  life  is  ended. 
Sometimes  it  gives  a  glory  to  the  voice, 
And  from  the  heart  up-springs,  rejoice!  rejoice  ! 
Sounds  which  will  reach  the  Framer  of  all  things, 
And  die  away  in  ardent  mutterings. 

No  one  who  once  the  glorious  sun  has  seen, 
And  all  the  clouds,  and  felt  his  bosom  clean 
For  his  great  Maker's  presence,  but  must  know 
What  'tis  I  mean,  and  feel  his  being  glow  : 
Therefore  no  insult  will  I  give  his  spirit, 
By  telling  what  he  sees  from  native  merit. 

O  Poesy  !  for  thee  I  hold  my  pen 

That  am  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 

Of  thy  wide  heaven  —  Should  I  rather  kneel 

Upon  some  mountain-top  until  I  feel 

A  glowing  splendor  round  about  me  hung, 

And  echo  back  the  voice  of  thine  own  tongue? 

O  Poesy  !  for  thee  I  grasp  my  pen 

That  am  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY.  45 

Of  thy  wide  heaven ;  yet,  to  my  ardent  prayer, 

Yield  from  thy  sanctuary  some  clear  air, 

Smoothed  for  intoxication  by  the  breath 

Of  flowering  bays,  that  I  may  die  a  death 

Of  luxury,  and  my  young  spirit  follow 

The  morning  sun-beams  to  the  great  Apollo 

Like  a  fresh  sacrifice ;  or,  if  I  can  bear 

The  o'erwhelming  sweets,  'twill  bring  me  to  the  fair 

Visions  of  all  places  :  a  bowery  nook 

Will  be  elysium  —  an  eternal  book 

Whence  I  may  copy  many  a  lovely  saying 

About  the  leaves,  and  flowers  —  about  the  playing 

Of  nymphs  in  woods,  and  fountains ;  and  the  shade 

Keeping  a  silence  round  a  sleeping  maid  ; 

And  many  a  verse  from  so  strange  influence 

That  we  must  ever  wonder  how,  and  whence 

It  came.     Also  imaginings  will  hover 

Round  my  fire-side,  and  haply  there  discover 

Vistas  of  solemn  beauty,  where  I'd  wander 

In  happy  silence,  like  the  clear  meander 

Through  its  lone  vales ;  and  where  I  found  a  spot 

Of  awfuller  shade,  or  an  enchanted  grot, 

Or  a  green  hill  overspread  with  chequered  dress 

Of  flowers,  and  fearful  from  its  loveliness, 

Write  on  my  tablets  all  that  was  permitted, 

All  that  was  for  our  human  senses  fitted. 

Then  the  events  of  this  wide  world  I'd  seize 

Like  a  strong  giant,  and  my  spirit  teaze 

Till  at  its  shoulders  it  should  proudly  see 

Wings  to  find  out  an  immortality. 

Stop  and  consider  !  life  is  but  a  day ; 
A  fragile  dew-drop  on  its  perilous  way 
From  a  tree's  summit ;  a  poor  Indian's  sleep 
While  his  boat  hastens  to  the  monstrous  steep 
Of  Montmorenci.     Why  so  sad  a  moan? 
Life  is  the  rose's  hope  while  yet  unbiown ; 
The  reading  of  an  ever-changing  tale  ; 
The  light  uplifting  of  a  maiden's  veil ; 


46  SLEEP  AND  POETRY. 

A  pigeon  tumbling  in  clear  summer  air ; 

A  laughing  school-boy,  without  grief  or  care, 

Riding  the  springy  branches  of  an  elm. 

O  for  ten  years,  that  I  may  overwhelm 

Myself  in  poesy ;  so  I  may  do  the  deed 

That  my  own  soul  has  to  itself  decreed. 

Then  I  will  pass  the  countries  that  I  see 

In  long  perspective,  and  continually 

Taste  their  pure  fountains.     First  the  realm  I'll  pass 

Of  Flora,  and  old  Pan  :  sleep  in  the  grass, 

Feed  upon  apples  red,  and  strawberries, 

And  choose  each  pleasure  that  my  fancy  sees ; 

Catch  the  white-handed  nymphs  in  shady  places, 

To  woo  sweet  kisses  from  averted  faces,  — 

Play  with  their  fingers,  touch  their  shoulders  white 

Into  a  pretty  shrinking  with  a  bite 

As  hard  as  lips  can  make  it :  till  agreed, 

A  lovely  tale  of  human  life  we'll  read. 

And  one  will  teach  a  tame  dove  how  it  best 

May  fan  the  cool  air  gently  o'er  my  rest ; 

Another,  bending  o'er  her  nimble  tread, 

Will  set  a  green  robe  floating  round  her  head, 

And  still  will  dance  with  ever  varied  ease, 

Smiling  upon  the  flowers  and  the  trees  : 

Another  will  entice  me  on,  and  on 

Through  almond  blossoms  and  rich  cinnamon ; 

Till  in  the  bosom  of  a  leafy  world 

We  rest  in  silence,  like  two  gems  upcurl'd 

In  the  recesses  of  a  pearly  shell. 

And  can  I  ever  bid  these  joys  farewell  ? 

Yes,  I  must  pass  them  for  a  nobler  life, 

Where  I  may  find  the  agonies,  the  strife 

Of  human  hearts  :  for  lo  !  I  see  afar, 

O'er  sailing  the  blue  cragginess,  a  car 

And  steeds  with  streamy  manes  —  the  charioteer 

Looks  out  upon  the  winds  with  glorious  fear : 

And  now  the  numerous  tramplings  quiver  lightly 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY.  47 

Along  a  huge  cloud's  ridge  ;  and  now  with  sprightly 

Wheel  downward  come  they  into  fresher  skies, 

Tipt  round  with  silver  from  the  sun's  bright  eyes. 

Still  downward  with  capacious  whirl  they  glide ; 

And  now  I  see  them  on  a  green-hill's  side 

In  breezy  rest  among  the  nodding  stalks. 

The  charioteer  with  wond'rous  gesture  talks 

To  the  trees  and  mountains ;  and  there  soon  appear 

Shapes  of  delight,  of  mystery,  and  fear, 

Passing  along  before  a  dusky  space 

Made  by  some  mighty  oaks :  as  they  would  chase 

Some  ever-fleeting  music  on  they  sweep. 

Lo !  how  they  murmur,  laugh,  and  smile,  and  weep  : 

Some  with  upholden  hand  and  mouth  severe ; 

Some  with  their  faces  muffled  to  the  ear 

Between  their  arms ;  some,  clear  in  youthful  bloom, 

Go  glad  and  smilingly  athwart  the  gloom  ; 

Some  looking  back,  and  some  with  upward  gaze ; 

Yes,  thousands  in  a  thousand  different  ways 

Flit  onward  —  now  a  lovely  wreath  of  girls 

Dancing  their  sleek  hair  into  tangled  curls ; 

And  now  broad  wings.     Most  awfully  intent 

The  driver  of  those  steeds  is  forward  bent, 

And  seems  to  listen :  O  that  I  might  know 

All  that  he  writes  with  such  a  hurrying  glow. 

The  visions  all  are  fled  —  the  car  is  fled 
Into  the  light  of  heaven,  and  in  their  stead 
A  sense  of  real  things  comes  doubly  strong, 
And,  like  a  muddy  stream,  would  bear  along 
My  soul  to  nothingness  :  but  I  will  strive 
Against  all  doubtings,  and  will  keep  alive 
The  thought  of  that  same  chariot,  and  the  strange 
Journey  it  went. 

Is  there  so  small  a  range 

In  the  present  strength  of  manhood,  that  the  high 
Imagination  cannot  freely  fly 
As  she  was  wont  of  old  ?  prepare  her  steeds, 


48  SLEEP  AND   POETRY. 

Paw  up  against  the  light,  and  do  strange  deeds 

Upon  the  clouds  ?     Has  she  not  shewn  us  all  ? 

From  the  clear  space  of  ether,  to  the  small 

Breath  of  new  buds  unfolding?     From  the  meaning 

Of  Jove's  large  eye-brow,  to  the  tender  greening 

Of  April  meadows?     Here  her  altar  shone, 

E'en  in  this  isle ;  and  who  could  paragon 

The  fervid  choir  that  lifted  up  a  noise 

Of  harmony,  to  where  it  aye  will  poise 

Its  mighty  self  of  convoluting  sound, 

Huge  as  a  planet,  and  like  that  roll  round, 

Eternally  around  a  dizzy  void? 

Ay,  in  those  days  the  Muses  were  nigh  cloy'd 

With  honors  ;  nor  had  any  other  care 

Than  to  sing  out  and  sooth  their  wavy  hair. 

Could  all  this  be  forgotten?     Yes,  a  sc[h]ism 

Nurtured  by  foppery  and  barbarism, 

Made  great  Apollo  blush  for  this  his  land. 

Men  were  thought  wise  who  could  not  understand 

His  glories :  with  a  puling  infant's  force 

They  sway'd  about  upon  a  rocking  horse. 

And  thought  it  Pegasus.     Ah  dismal  soul'd! 

The  winds  of  heaven  blew,  the  ocean  roll'd 

Its  gathering  waves  —  ye  felt  it  not.     The  blue 

Bared  its  eternal  bosom,  and  the  dew 

.Of  summer  nights  collected  still  to  make 

The  morning  precious  :  beauty  was  awake ! 

Why  were  ye  not  awake  ?     But  ye  were  dead 

To  things  ye  knew  not  of,  —  were  closely  wed 

To  musty  laws  lined  out  with  wretched  rule 

And  compass  vile :  so  that  ye  taught  a  school 

Of  dolts  to  smooth,  inlay,  and  clip,  and  fit, 

Till,  like  the  certain  wands  of  Jacob's  wit, 

Their  verses  tallied.     Easy  was  the  task  : 

A  thousand  handicraftsmen  wore  the  mask 

Of  Poesy.     Ill-fated,  impious  race! 

That  blasphemed  the  bright  Lyrist  to  his  face, 

And  did  not  know  it,  —  no,  they  went  about, 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY.  49 

Holding  a  poor,  decrepid  standard  out 
Mark'd  with  most  flimsy  mottos,  and  in  large 
The  name  of  one  Boileau ! 

O  ye  whose  charge 

It  is  to  hover  round  our  pleasant  hills! 
Whose  congregated  majesty  so  fills 
My  boundly  reverence,  that  I  cannot  trace 
Your  hallowed  names,  in  this  unholy  place, 
So  near  those  common  folk ;  did  not  their  shames 
Affright  you  ?     Did  our  old  lamenting  Thames 
Deligh*  you?     Did  ye  never  cluster  round 
Delicious  Avon,  with  a  mournful  sound, 
And  weep?     Or  did  ye  wholly  bid  adieu 
To  regions  where  no  more  the  laurel  grew? 
Or  did  ye  stay  to  give  a  welcoming 
To  some  lone  spirits  who  could  proudly  sing 
Their  youth  away,  and  die  ?     'Twas  even  so : 
But  let  me  think  away  those  times  of  woe : 
Now  'tis  a  fairer  season  ;  ye  have  breathed 
Rich  benedictions  o'er  us  ;  ye  have  wreathed 
Fresh  garlands :  for  sweet  music  has  been  heard 
In  many  places  ;  —  some  has  been  upstirr'd 
From  out  its  crystal  dwelling  in  a  lake, 
By  a  swan's  ebon  bill ;  from  a  thick  brake, 
Nested  and  quiet  in  a  valley  mild, 
Bubbles  a  pipe ;  fine  sounds  are  floating, wild 
About  the  earth  :  happy  are  ye  and  glad. 
These  things  are  doubtless :  yet  in  truth  we've  had 
Strange  thunders  from  the  potency  of  song ; 
Mingled  indeed  with  what  is  sweet  and  strong, 
From  majesty :  but  in  clear  truth  the  themes 
Are  ugly  clubs,  the  Poets  Polyphemes 
Disturbing  the  grand  sea.     A  drainless  shower 
Of  light  is  poesy ;  'tis  the  supreme  of  power ; 
'Tis  might  half  slumb'ring  on  its  own  right  arm. 
The  very  archings  of  her  eye-lids  charm 
A  thousand  willing  agents  to  obey, 
And  still  she  governs  with  the  mildest  sway : 


50  SLEEP  AND  POETRY. 

But  strength  alone  though  of  the  Muses  born 

Is  like  a  fallen  angel :  trees  uptorn, 

Darkness,  and  worms,  and  shrouds,  and  sepulchres 

Delight  it ;  for  it  feeds  upon  the  burrs, 

And  thorns  of  life ;  forgetting  the  great  end 

Of  poesy,  that  it  should  be  a  friend 

To  sooth  the  cares,  and  lift  the  thoughts  of  man. 

Yet  I  rejoice  :  a  myrtle  fairer  than 
E'er  grew  in  Paphos,  from  the  bitter  weeds 
Lifts  its  sweet  head  into  the  air,  and  feeds 
A  silent  space  with  ever  sprouting  green. 
All  tenderest  birds  there  find  a  pleasant  screen, 
Creep  through  the  shade  with  jaunty  fluttering, 
Nibble  the  little  cupped  flowers  and  sing. 
Then  let  us  clear  away  the  choking  thorns 
From  round  its  gentle  stem  ;  let  the  young  fawns, 
Yeaned  in  after  times,  when  we  are  flown, 
Find  a  fresh  sward  beneath  it,  overgrown 
With  simple  flowers  :  let  there  nothing  be 
More  boisterous  than  a  lover's  bended  knee ; 
Nought  more  ungentle  than  the  placid  look 
Of  one  who  leans  upon  a  closed  book ; 
Nought  more  untranquil  than  the  grassy  slopes 
Between  two  hills.     All  hail  delightful  hopes! 
As  she  was  wont,  th'  imagination 
Into  most  lovely  labyrinths  will  be  gone, 
And  they  shall  be  accounted  poet  kings 
Who  simply  tell  the  most  heart-easing  things. 
O  may  these  joys  be  ripe  before  I  die. 
Will  not  some  say  that  I  presumptuously 
Have  spoken?  that  from  hastening  disgrace 
'Twere  better  far  to  hide  my  foolish  face? 
That  whining  boyhood  should  with  reverence  bow 
Ere  the  dread  thunderbolt  could  reach?     How! 
If  I  do  hide  myself,  it  sure  shall  be 
In  the  very  fane,  the  light  of  Poesy : 
If  I  do  fall,  at  least  I  will  be  laid 
Beneath  the  silence  of  a  poplar  shade ; 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY.  $1 

And  over  me  the  grass  shall  be  smooth  shaven ; 

And  there  shall  be  a  kind  memorial  graven. 

But  off  Despondence !  miserable  bane! 

They  should  not  know  thee,  who  athirst  to  gain 

A  noble  end,  are  thirsty  every  hour. 

What  though  I  am  not  wealthy  in  the  dower 

Of  spanning  wisdom  ;  though  I  do  not  know 

The  shiftings  of  the  mighty  winds  that  blow 

Hither  and  thither  all  the  changing  thoughts 

Of  man  :  though  no  great  minist'ring  reason  sorts 

Out  the  dark  mysteries  of  human  souls 

To  clear  conceiving :  yet  there  ever  rolls 

A  vast  idea  before  me,  and  I  glean 

Therefrom  my  liberty ;  thence  too  I've  seen 

The  end  and  aim  of  Poesy.     'Tis  clear 

As  anything  most  true ;  as  that  the  year 

Is  made  of  the  four  seasons  —  manifest 

As  a  large  cross,  some  old  cathedral's  crest, 

Lifted  to  the  white  clouds.     Therefore  should  I 

Be  but  the  essence  of  deformity, 

A  coward,  did  my  very  eye-lids  wink 

At  speaking  out  what  I  have  dared  to  think. 

Ah !  rather  let  me  like  a  madman  run 

Over  some  precipice ;  let  the  hot  sun 

Melt  my  Dedalian  wings,  and  drive  me  down 

Convuls'd  and  headlong!     Stay!  an  inward  frown 

Of  conscience  bids  me  be  more  calm  awhile. 

An  ocean  dim,  sprinkled  with  many  an  isle, 

Spreads  awfully  before  me.     How  much  toil! 

How  many  days!  what  desperate  turmoil! 

Ere  I  can  have  explored  its  widenesses. 

Ah,  what  a  task !  upon  my  bended  knees, 

I  could  unsay  those  —  no,  impossible! 

Impossible! 

For  sweet  relief  I'll  dwell 

On  humbler  thoughts,  and  let  this  strange  assay 
Begun  in  gentleness  die  so  away. 
E'en  now  all  tumult  from  my  bosom  fades : 


52  SLEEP  AND  POETRY. 

I  turn  full  hearted  to  the  friendly  aids 

That  smooth  the  path  of  honor ;  brotherhood, 

And  friendliness  the  nurse  of  mutual  good. 

The  hearty  grasp  that  sends  a  pleasant  sonnet 

Into  the  brain  ere  one  can  think  upon  it ; 

The  silence  when  some  rhymes  are  coming  out ; 

And  when  they're  come,  the  very  pleasant  rout : 

The  message  certain  to  be  done  to-morrow. 

'Tis  perhaps  as  well  that  it  should  be  to  borrow 

Some  precious  book  from  out  its  snug  retreat, 

To  cluster  round  it  when  we  next  shall  meet. 

Scarce  can  I  scribble  on ;  for  lovely  airs 

Are  fluttering  round  the  room  like  doves  in  pairs 

Many  delights  of  that  glad  day  recalling, 

When  first  my  senses  caught  their  tender  falling. 

And  with  these  airs  come  forms  of  elegance 

Stooping  their  shoulders  o'er  a  horse's  prance, 

Careless,  and  grand  — fingers  soft  and  round 

Parting  luxuriant  curls  ;  —  and  the  swift  bound 

Of  Bacchus  from  his  chariot,  when  his  eye 

Made  Ariadne's  cheek  look  blushingly. 

Thus  I  remember  all  the  pleasant  flow 

Of  words  at  opening  a  portfolio. 

Things  such  as  these  are  ever  harbingers 

To  trains  of  peaceful  images  :  the  stirs 

Of  a  swan's  neck  unseen  among  the  rushes  : 

A  linnet  starting  all  about  the  bushes : 

A  butterfly,  with  golden  wings  broad  parted 

Nestling  a  rose,  convuls'd  as  though  it  smarted 

With  over  pleasure  —  many,  many  more, 

Might  I  indulge  at  large  in  all  my  store 

Of  luxuries  :  yet  I  must  not  forget 

Sleep,  quiet  with  his  poppy  coronet : 

For  what  there  may  be  worthy  in  these  rhymes 

I  partly  owe  to  him :  and  thus,  the  chimes 

Of  friendly  voices  had  just  given  place 

To  as  sweet  a  silence,  when  I  'gan  retrace 

The  pleasant  day,  upon  a  couch  at  ease. 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY.  53 

It  was  a  poet's  house  who  keeps  the  keys 

Of  pleasure's  temple.     Round  about  were  hung 

The  glorious  features  of  the  bards  who  sung 

In  other  ages  —  cold  and  sacred  busts 

Smiled  at  each  other.     Happy  he  who  trusts 

To  clear  Futurity  his  darling  fame! 

Then  there  were  fauns  and  satyrs  taking  aim 

At  swelling  apples  with  a  frisky  leap 

And  reaching  ringers,  'mid  a  luscious  heap 

Of  vine  leaves.     Then  there  rose  to  view  a  fane 

Of  liny  marble,  and  thereto  a  train 

Of  nymphs  approaching  fairly  o'er  the  sward : 

One,  loveliest,  holding  her  white  hand  toward 

The  dazzling  sun-rise  :  two  sisters  sweet 

Bending  their  graceful  figures  till  they  meet 

Over  the  trippings  of  a  little  child : 

And  some  are  hearing,  eagerly,  the  wild 

Thrilling  liquidity  of  dewy  piping. 

See,  in  another  picture,  nymphs  are  wiping 

Cherishingly  Diana's  timorous  limbs  ;  — 

A  fold  of  lawny  mantle  dabbling  swims 

At  the  bath's  edge,  and  keeps  a  gentle  motion 

With  the  subsiding  crystal :  as  when  ocean 

Heaves  calmly  its  broad  swelling  smoothiness  o'er 

Its  rocky  marge,  and  balances  once  more 

The  patient  weeds ;  that  now  unshent  by  foam 

Feel  all  about  their  undulating  home. 

Sappho's  meek  head  was  there  half  smiling  down 
At  nothing ;  just  as  though  the  earnest  frown 
Of  over  thinking  had  that  moment  gone 
From  off  her  brow,  and  left  her  all  alone. 

Great  Alfred's  too,  with  anxious,  pitying  eyes, 
As  if  he  always  listened  to  the  sighs 
Of  the  goaded  world  ;  and  Kosciusko's  worn 
By  horrid  suffrance  —  mightily  forlorn. 
Petrarch,  outstepping  from  the  shady  green, 
Starts  at  the  sight  of  Laura ;  nor  can  wean. 


54  SLEEP  AND  POETRY. 

His  eyes  from  her  sweet  face.     Most  happy  they'. 

For  over  them  was  seen  a  free  display 

Of  out-spread  wings,  and  from  between  them  shone 

The  face  of  Poesy  :  from  off  her  throne 

She  overlook^  things  that  I  scarce  could  tell. 

The  very  sense  of  where  I  was  might  well 

Keep  Sleep  aloof:  but  more  than  that  there  came 

Thought  after  thought  to  nourish  up  the  flame 

Within  my  breast ;  so  that  the  morning  light 

Surprised  me  even  from  a  sleepless  night ; 

And  up  I  rose  refreshed,  and  glad,  and  gay, 

Resolving  to  begin  that  very  day 

These  lines ;  and  howsoever  they  be  done, 

I  leave  them  as  a  father  does  his  son. 


Jims. 


[PUBLISHED  1818] 


ENDYMION 

^  poetic  Romance. 


•  THE   STRETCHED    METRE   OF  AN   ANTIQUE    SONS. 


INSCRIBED 
TO  THE  MEMORY 

OF 
THOMAS   CHATTERTON. 


PREFACE. 


KNOWING  within  myself  the  manner  in  which  this  Poem 
has  been  produced,  it  is  not  without  a  feeling  of  regret  that 
I  make  it  public. 

What  manner  I  mean,  will  be  quite  clear  to  the  reader,  who 
must  soon  perceive  great  inexperience,  immaturity,  and  every 
error  denoting  a  feverish  attempt,  rather  than  a  deed  accom- 
plished. The  two  first  books,  and  indeed  the  two  last,  I  feel 
sensible  are  not  of  such  completion  as  to  warrant  their  passing 
the  press ;  nor  should  they  if  I  thought  a  year's  castigation 
would  do  them  any  good; — it  will  not:  the  foundations  are 
too  sandy.  It  is  just  that  this  youngster  should  die  away :  a 
sad  thought  for  me,  if  I  had  not  some  hope  that  while  it  is 
dwindling  I  may  be  plotting,  and  fitting  myself  for  verses  fit 
to  live. 

This  may  be  speaking  too  presumptuously,  and  may  deserve 
a  punishment :  but  no  feeling  man  will  be  forward  to  inflict 
it :  he  will  leave  me  alone,  with  the  conviction  that  there  is  not 
a  fiercer  hell  than  the  failure  in  a  great  object.  This  is  not 
written  with  the  least  atom  of  purpose  to  forestall  criticisms  of 
course,  but  from  the'  desire  I  have  to  conciliate  men  who  are 
competent  to  look,  and  who  do  look  with  a  zealous  eye,  to  the 
honor  of  English  literature. 

The  imagination  of  a  boy  is  healthy,  atiJ  the  mature  imag- 
ination of  a  man  is  healthy ;  but  there  is  a  space  of  life  between, 
in  which  the  soul  is  in  a  ferment,  the  character  undecided,  the 
way  of  life  uncertain,  the  ambition  thick-sighted  :  thence  pro- 
ceeds mawkishness,  and  all  the  thousand  bitters  which  those 
men  I  speak  of  must  necessarily  taste  in  going  over  the  follow- 
ing pages. 

I  hope  I  have  not  in  too  late  a  day  touched  the  beautiful 
mythology  of  Greece,  and  dulled  its  brightness :  for  I  wish  to 
try  once  more,  before  I  bid  it  farewell. 

TKIGNMOUTH,  April  10,  1818. 
56 


ENDYMION. 


BOOK   I. 

A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever : 

Its  loveliness  increases ;  it  will  never 

Pass  into  nothingness ;  but  still  will  keep 

A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreathing 

A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth, 

Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 

Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 

Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er-darkened  ways 

Made  for  our  searching :  yes,  in  spite  of  all, 

Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 

From  our  dark  spirits.     Such  the  sun,  the  moon, 

Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 

For  simple  sheep ;  and  such  are  daffodils 

With  the  green  world  they  live  in ;  and  clear  rills 

That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 

'Gainst  the  hot  season ;  the  mid  forest  brake, 

Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms: 

And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 

We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead ; 

All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read : 

An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink, 

Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences 
For  one  short  hour ;  no,  even  as  the  trees 

57 


58  ENDYMION.  BOOK  I. 

That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon, 
The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite, 
Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light 
Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast, 
That,  whether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom  o'ercast, 
They  alway  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die. 

Therefore,  'tis  with  full  happiness  that  I 
Will  trace  the  story  of  Endymion. 
The  very  music  of  the  name  has  gone 
Into  my  being,  and  each  pleasant  scene 
Is  growing  fresh  before  me  as  the  green 
Of  our  own  vallies  :  so  I  will  begin 
Now  while  I  cannot  hear  the  city's  din  ; 
Now  while  the  early  budders  are  just  new, 
And  run  in  mazes  of  the  youngest  hue 
About  old  forests ;  while  the  willow  trails 
Its  delicate  amber ;  and  the  dairy  pails 
Bring  home  increase  of  milk.     And,  as  the  year 
Grows  lush  in  juicy  stalks,  I'll  smoothly  steer 
My  little  boat,  for  many  quiet  hours, 
With  streams  that  deepen  freshly  into  bowers. 
Many  and  many  a  verse  I  hope  to  write, 
Before  the  daisies,  vermeil  rimm'd  and  white, 
Hide  in  deep  herbage ;  and  ere  yet  the  bees 
Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet  peas, 
I  must  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story. 
O  may  no  wintry  season,  bare  and  hoary, 
See  it  half  finished  :  but  let  Autumn  bold, 
With  universal  tinge  of  sober  gold, 
Be  all  about  me  when  I  make  an  eud. 
And  now  at  once,  adventuresome,  I  send 
My  herald  thought  into  a  wilderness  : 
There  let  its  trumpet  blow,  and  quickly  dress 
My  uncertain  path  with  green,  that  I  may  speed 
Easily  onward,  thorough  flowers  and  weed. 

Upon  the  sides  of  Latmos  was  outspread 
A  mighty  forest ;  for  the  moist  earth  fed 


BOOK  i.  END  YM ION.  59 

So  plenteously  all  weed-hidden  roots 

Into  o'er-hanging  boughs,  and  precious  fruits. 

And  it  had  gloomy  shades,  sequestered  deep, 

Where  no  man  went ;  and  if  from  shepherd's  keep 

A  lamb  strayed  far  a-down  those  inmost  glens, 

Never  again  saw  he  the  happy  pens 

Whither  his  brethren,  bleating  with  content, 

Over  the  hills  at  every  nightfall  went. 

Among  the  shepherds,  'twas  believed  ever, 

That  not  one  fleecy  lamb  which  thus  did  sever 

From  the  white  flock,  but  pass'd  unworried 

By  angry  wolf,  or  pard  with  prying  head, 

Until  it  came  to  some  unfooted  plains 

Where  fed  the  herds  of  Pan  :  ay  great  his  gains 

Who  thus  one  lamb  did  lose.     Paths  there  were  many, 

Winding  through  palmy  fern,  and  rushes  fenny, 

And  ivy  banks  ;  all  leading  pleasantly 

To  a  wide  lawn,  whence  one  could  only  see 

Stems  thronging  all  around  between  the  swell 

Of  turf  and  slanting  branches  :  who  could  tell 

The  freshness  of  the  space  of  heaven  above, 

Edg'd  round  with  dark  tree  tops?  through  which  a 

dove 

Would  often  beat  its  wings,  and  often  too 
A  little  cloud  would  move  across  the  blue. 

Full  in  the  middle  of  this  pleasantness 
There  stood  a  marble  altar,  with  a  tress 
Of  flowers  budded  newly ;  and  the  dew 
Had  taken  fairy  phantasies  to  strew 
Daisies  upon  the  sacred  sward  last  eve, 
And  so  the  dawned  light  in  pomp  receive. 
For  'twas  the  morn  :  Apollo's  upward  fire 
Made  every  eastern  cloud  a  silvery  pyre 
Of  brightness  so  unsullied,  that  therein 
A  melancholy  spirit  well  might  win 
Oblivion,  and  melt  out  his  essence  fine 
Into  the  winds:  rain-scented  eglantine 
Gave  temperate  sweets  to  that  well-wooing  sun ; 


60  ENDYMION.  BOOK  i. 

The  lark  was  lost  in  him  ;  cold  springs  had  run 
To  warm  their  chilliest  bubbles  in  the  grass ; 
Man's  voice  was  on  the  mountains ;  and  the  mass 
Of  nature's  lives  and  wonders  puls'd  tenfold, 
To  feel  this  sun-rise  and  its  glories  old. 

Now  while  the  silent  workings  of  the  dawn 
Were  busiest,  into  that  self-same  lawn 
All  suddenly,  with  joyful  cries,  there  sped 
A  troop  of  little  children  garlanded  ; 
Who  gathering  round  the  altar,  seemed  to  pry 
Earnestly  round  as  wishing  to  espy 
Some  folk  of  holiday  :  nor  had  they  waited 
For  many  moments,  ere  their  ears  were  sated 
With  a  faint  breath  of  music,  which  ev'n  then 
Fill'd  out  its  voice,  and  died  away  again. 
Within  a  little  space  again  it  gave 
Its  airy  swellings,  with  a  gentle  wave, 
To  light-hung  leaves,  in  smoothest  echoes  breaking 
Through  copse-clad  vallies,  —  ere  their  death,  o'er- 

taking 
The  surgy  murmurs  of  the  lonely  sea. 

And  now,  as  deep  into  the  wood  as  we 
Might  mark  a  lynx's  eye,  there  glimmered  light 
Fair  faces  and  a  rush  of  garments  white, 
Plainer  and  plainer  shewing,  till  at  last 
Into  the  wildest  alley  they  all  past, 
Miking  directly  for  the  woodland  altar. 
O  kindly  muse  !  let  not  my  weak  tongue  faulter 
In  telling  of  this  goodly  company, 
Of  their  old  piety,  and  of  their  glee  : 
But  let  a  portion  of  ethereal  dew 
Fall  on  my  head,  and  presently  unmew 
My  soul ;  that  I  may  dare,  in  wayfaring, 
To  stammer  where  old  Chaucer  used  to  sing. 

Leading  the  way,  young  damsels  danced  along, 
Bearing  the  burden  of  a  shepherd  song ; 


BOOK  I.  END  YM I  ON.  61 

Each  having  a  white  wieker  over  brimm'd 

With  April's  tender  younglings  :  next,  well  trimm'd, 

A  crowd  of  shepherds  with  as  sunburnt  looks 

As  may  be  read  of  in  Arcadian  books  ; 

Such  as  sat  listening  round  Apollo's  pipe, 

When  the  great  deity,  for  earth  too  ripe, 

Let  his  divinity  o'er-flowing  die 

In  music,  through  the  vales  of  Thessaly  : 

Some  idly  trailed  their  sheep-hooks  on  the  ground, 

And  some  kept  up  a  shrilly  mellow  sound 

With  ebon-tipped  flutes  :  close  after  these, 

Now  coming  from  beneath  the  forest  trees, 

A  venerable  priest  full  soberly, 

Begirt  with  ministring  looks  :  alway  his  eye 

Stedfast  upon  the  matted  turf  he  kept, 

And  after  him  his  sacred  vestments  swept. 

From  his  right  hand  there  swung  a  vase,  milk-white, 

Of  mingled  wine,  out-sparkling  generous  light ; 

And  in  his  left  he  held  a  basket  full 

Of  all  sweet  herbs  that  searching  eye  could  cull : 

Wild  thyme,  and  valley-lilies  whiter  still 

Than  Leda's  love,  and  cresses  from  the  rill. 

His  aged  head,  crowned  with  beechen  wreath, 

Seem'd  like  a  poll  of  ivy  in  the  teeth 

Of  winter  hoar.     Then  came  another  crowd 

Of  shepherds,  lifting  in  due  time  aloud 

Their  share  of  the  ditty.     After  them  appear'd, 

Up-followed  by  a  multitude  that  rear'd 

Their  voices  to  the  clouds,  a  fair  wrought  car, 

Easily  rolling  so  as  scarce  to  mar 

The  freedom  of  three  steeds  of  dapple  brown  : 

Who  stood  therein  did  seem  of  great  renown 

Among  the  throng.     His  youth  was  fully  blown, 

Shewing  like  Ganymede  to  manhood  grown  ; 

And,  for  those  simple  times,  his  garments  were 

A  chieftain  king's  :  beneath  his  breast,  half  bare, 

Was  hung  a  silver  bugle,  and  between 

His  nervy  knees  there  lay  a  boar-spear  keen. 

A  smile  was  on  his  countenance ;  he  seem'd, 


62  ENDYMION.  BOOK  I. 

To  common  lookers  on,  like  one  who  dream'd 

Of  idleness  in  groves  Elysian  : 

But  there  were  some  who  feelingly  could  scan 

A  lurking  trouble  in  his  nether  lip, 

And  see  that  oftentimes  the  reins  would  slip 

Through  his  forgotten  hands :  then  would  they  sigh, 

And  think  of  yellow  leaves,  of  owlets  cry, 

Of  logs  piled  solemnly.  —  Ah,  well-a-day, 

Why  should  our  young  Endymion  pine  away! 

Soon  the  assembly,  in  a  circle  rang'd, 
Stood  silent  round  the  shrine  :  each  look  was  chang'd 
To  sudden  veneration :  women  meek 
Beckon'd  their  sons  to  silence ;  while  each  cheek 
Of  virgin  bloom  paled  gently  for  slight  fear. 
Endymion  too,  without  a  forest  peer, 
Stood,  wan,  and  pale,  and  with  an  awed  face, 
Among  his  brothers  of  the  mountain  chase. 
In  midst  of  all,  the  venerable  priest 
Eyed  them  with  joy  from  greatest  to  the  least, 
And,  after  lifting  up  his  aged  hands, 
Thus  spake  he  :    "  Men  of  Latmos  !  shepherd  bands  ! 
Whose  care  it  is  to  guard  a  thousand  flocks : 
Whether  descended  from  beneath  the  rocks 
That  overtop  your  mountains  ;  whether  come 
From  vallies  where  the  pipe  is  never  dumb ; 
Or  from  your  swelling  downs,  where  sweet  air  stirs 
Blue  hare-bells  lightly,  and  where  prickly  furze 
Buds  lavish  gold ;  or  ye,  whose  precious  charge 
Nibble  their  fill  at  ocean's  very  marge, 
Whose  mellow  reeds  are  touch'd  with  sounds  forlorn 
By  the  dim  echoes  of  old  Triton's  horn : 
Mothers  and  wives!  who  day  by  day  prepare 
The  scrip,  with  needments,  for  the  mountain  air ; 
And  all  ye  gentle  girls  who  foster  up 
Udderless  lambs,  and  in  a  little  cup 
Will  put  choice  honey  for  a  favored  youth  : 
Yea,  every  one  attend!  for  in  good  truth 
Our  vows  are  wanting  to  our  great  god  Pan. 


BOOK  i.  ENDYMION.  63 

Are  not  our  lowing  heifers  sleeker  than 
Night-swollen  mushrooms?     Are  not  our  wide  plains 
Speckled  with  countless  fleeces?     Have  not  rains 
Green'd  over  April's  lap  ?     No  howling  sad 
Sickens  our  fearful  ewes ;  and  we  have  had 
Great  bounty  from  Endymion  our  lord. 
The  earth  is  glad :  the  merry  lark  has  pour'd 
His  early  song  against  yon  breezy  sky, 
That  spreads  so  clear  o'er  our  solemnity." 

Thus  ending,  on  the  shrine  he  heap'd  a  spire 
Of  teeming  sweets,  enkindling  sacred  fire  ; 
Anon  he  stain'd  the  thick  and  spongy  sod 
With  wine,  in  honor  of  the  shepherd-god. 
Now  while  the  earth  was  drinking  it,  and  while 
Bay  leaves  were  crackling  in  the  fragrant  pile, 
And  gummy  frankincense  was  sparkling  bright 
'Neath  smothering  parsley,  and  a  hazy  light 
Spread  greyly  eastward,  thus  a  chorus  sang : 

"  O  THOU,  whose  mighty  palace  roof  doth  hang 
From  jagged  trunks,  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life,  death 
Of  unseen  flowers  in  heavy  peacefulness ; 
Who  lov'st  to  see  the  hamadryads  dress 
Their  ruffled  locks  where  meeting  hazels  darken  ; 
And  through  whole  solemn  hours  dost  sit,  and  hearken 
The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds  — 
In  desolate  places,  where  dank  moisture  breeds 
The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth ; 
Bethinking  thee,  how  melancholy  loth 
Thou  wast  to  lose  fair  Syrinx  —  do  thou  now, 
By  thy  love's  milky  brow! 
By  all  the  trembling  mazes  that  she  ran, 
Hear  us,  great  Pan! 

"  O  thou,  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet,  turtles 
Passion  their  voices  cooingly  'mong  myrtles, 


64 


BOOK   L 


What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 
Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt  the  side 
Of  thine  enmossed  realms  :  O  thou,  to  whom 
Broad  leaved  fig  trees  even  now  foredoom 
Their  ripen'd  fruitage  ;  yellow  girted  bees 
Their  golden  honeycombs  ;  our  village  leas 
Their  fairest-blossom'd  beans  and  poppied  corn  ; 
The  chuckling  linnet  its  five  young  unborn, 
To  sing  for  thee  ;  low  creeping  strawberries 
Their  summer  coolness  ;  pent  up  butterflies 
Their  freckled  wings ;  yea,  the  fresh  budding  year 
All  its  completions  —  be  quickly  near, 
By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain  pine, 
O  forester  divine! 

"  Thou,  to  whom  every  fawn  and  satyr  flies 
For  willing  service  ;  whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half  sleeping  fit ; 
Or  upward  ragged  precipices  flit 
To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle's  maw ; 
Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewildered  shepherds  to  their  path  again ; 
Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy  main, 
And  gather  up  all  fancifullest  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  Naiads'  cells, 
And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out-peeping ; 
Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping, 
The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the  crown 
With  silvery  oak  apples,  and  fir  cones  brown  — 
By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring, 
Hear  us,  O  satyr  king! 

"  O  Hearkener  to  the  loud  clapping  shears, 
While  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A  ram  goes  bleating :  Winder  of  the  horn, 
When  snouted  wild-boars  routing  tender  corn 
Anger  our  huntsman  :  Breather  round  our  farms, 
To  keep  off  mildews,  and  all  weather  harms ; 


BOOK  I.  ENDYMION.  65 

Strange  ministrant  of  undescribed  sounds, 
That  come  a  swooning  over  hollow  grounds, 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors  : 
Dread  opener  of  the  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge  —  see, 
Great  son  of  Dryope, 

The  many  that  are  come  to  pay  their  vows 
With  leaves  about  their  brows! 


"  Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 
For  solitary  thinkings  ;  such  as  dodge 
Conception  to  the  very  bourne  of  heaven, 
Then  leave  the  naked  brain :  be  still  the  leaven, 
That  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded  earth 
Gives  it  a  touch  ethereal  —  a  new  birth  : 
Be  still  a  symbol  of  immensity ; 
A  firmament  reflected  in  a  sea ; 
An  element  filling  the  space  between  ; 
An  unknown  —  but  no  more  :  we  humbly  screen 
With  uplift  hands  our  foreheads,  lowly  bending, 
And  giving  out  a  shout  most  heaven  rending, 
Conjure  thee  to  receive  our  humble  Paean, 
Upon  thy  Mount  Lycean !  " 

Even  while  they  brought  the  burden  to  a  close^ 
A  shout  from  the  whole  multitude  arose, 
That  lingered  in  the  air  like  dying  rolls 
Of  abrupt  thunder,  when  Ionian  shoals 
Of  dolphins  bob  their  noses  through  the  brine. 
Meantime,  on  shady  levels,  mossy  fine, 
Young  companies  nimbly  began  dancing 
To  the  swift  treble  pipe,  and  humming  string. 
Aye,  those  fair  living  forms  swam  heavenly 
To  tunes  forgotten  —  out  of  memory  : 
Fair  creatures !  whose  young  children's  children  bred 
Thermopylae  its  heroes  —  not  yet  dead, 
But  in  old  marbles  ever  beautiful. 
High  genitors,  unconscious  did  they  cull 


66  ENDYMION.  BOOK  I. 

Time's  sweet  first-fruits  —  they  danc'd  to  weariness, 

And  then  in  quiet  circles  did  they  press 

The  hillock  turf,  and  caught  the  latter  end 

Of  some  strange  history,  potent  to  send 

A  young  mind  from  its  bodily  tenement. 

Or  they  might  watch  the  quoit-pitchers,  intent 

On  either  side  ;  pitying  the  sad  death 

Of  Hyacinthus,  when  the  cruel  breath 

Of  Zephyr  slew  him,  —  Zephyr  penitent, 

Who  now,  ere  Phoebus  mounts  the  firmament, 

Fondles  the  flower  amid  the  sobbing  rain. 

The  archers  too,  upon  a  wider  plain, 

Beside  the  feathery  whizzing  of  the  shaft, 

And  the  dull  twanging  bowstring,  and  the  raft 

Branch  down  sweeping  from  a  tall  ash  top, 

CalPd  up  a  thousand  thoughts  to  envelope 

Those  who  would  watch.     Perhaps,  the  trembling 

knee 

And  frantic  gape  of  lonely  Niobe, 
Poor,  lonely  Niobe!  when  her  lovely  young 
Were  dead  and  gone,  and  her  caressing  tongue 
Lay  a  lost  thing  upon  her  paly  lip, 
And  very,  very  deadliness  did  nip 
Her  motherly  cheeks.     Arous'd  from  this  sad  mood 
By  one,  who  at  a  distance  loud  halloo'd, 
Uplifting  his  strong  bow  into  the  air, 
Many  might  after  brighter  visions  stare  : 
After  the  Argonauts,  in  blind  amaze 
Tossing  about  on  Neptune's  restless  ways, 
Until,  from  the  horizon's  vaulted  side, 
There  shot  a  golden  splendor  far  and  wide. 
Spangling  those  million  poutings  of  the  brine 
With  quivering  ore :  'twas  even  an  awful  shine 
From  the  exaltation  of  Apollo's  bow ; 
A  heavenly  beacon  in  their  dreary  woe. 
Who  thus  were  ripe  for  high  contemplating, 
Might  turn  their  steps  towards  the  sober  ring 
Where  sat  Endymion  and  the  aged  priest 
'Mong  shepherds  gone  in  eld,  whose  looks  increas'd 


BOOK  I.  ENDYMION.  67 

The  silvery  setting  of  their  mortal  star. 

There  they  discours'd  upon  the  fragile  bar 

That  keeps  us  from  our  homes  ethereal ; 

And  what  our  duties  there :  to  nightly  call 

Vesper,  the  beauty-crest  of  summer  weather; 

To  summon  all  the  downiest  clouds  together 

For  the  sun's  purple  couch  ;  to  emulate 

In  ministring  the  potent  rule  of  fate 

With  speed  of  fire-tailed  exhalations  ; 

To  tint  her  pallid  cheek  with  bloom,  who  cons 

Sweet  poesy  by  moonlight :  besides  these, 

A  world  of  other  unguess'd  offices. 

Anon  they  wander'd,  by  divine  converse, 

Into  Elysium  ;  vicing  to  rehearse 

Each  one  his  own  anticipated  bliss. 

One  felt  heart-certain  that  he  could  not  miss 

His  quick  gone  love,  among  fair  blossom'd  boughs, 

Where  every  zephyr-sigh  pouts,  and  endows 

Her  lips  with  music  for  the  welcoming. 

Another  wish'd,  mid  that  eternal  spring, 

To  meet  his  rosy  child,  with  feathery  sails, 

Sweeping,  eye-earnestly,  through  almond  vales : 

Who,  suddenly,  should  stoop  through  the  smooth 

wind, 

And  with  the  balmiest  leaves  his  temples  bind ; 
And,  ever  after,  through  those  regions  be 
His  messenger,  his  little  Mercury. 
Some  were  athirst  in  soul  to  see  again 
Their  fellow  huntsmen  o'er  the  wide  champaign 
In  times  long  past ;  to  sit  with  them,  and  talk 
Of  all  the  chances  in  their  earthly  walk  ; 
Comparing,  joyfully,  their  plenteous  stores 
Of  happiness,  to  when  upon  the  moors, 
Benighted,  close  they  huddled  from  the  cold, 
And  shar'd  their  famish'd  scrips.     Thus  all  out-told 
Their  fond  imaginations,  —  saving  him 
Whose  eyelids  curtain'd  up  their  jewels  dim, 
Endymion  :  yet  hourly  had  he  striven 
To  hide  the  cankering  venom,  that  had  riven 


68  END  YM I  ON.  BOOK  i. 

His  fainting  recollections.     Now  indeed 
His  senses  had  swoon'd  off:  he  did  not  heed 
The  sudden  silence,  or  the  whispers  low, 
Or  the  old  eyes  dissolving  at  his  woe, 
Or  anxious  calls,  or  close  of  trembling  palms, 
Or  maiden's  sigh,  that  grief  itself  embalms  : 
But  in  the  self-same  fixed  trance  he  kept, 
Like  one  who  on  the  earth  had  never  stept. 
Aye,  even  as  dead-still  as  a  marble  man, 
Frozen  in  that  old  tale  Arabian. 

Who  whispers  him  so  pantingly  and  close? 
Peona,  his  sweet  sister :  of  all  those, 
His  friends,  the  dearest.     Hushing  signs  she  made 
And  breath'd  a  sister's  sorrow  to  persuade 
A  yielding  up,  a  cradling  on  her  care. 
Her  eloquence  did  breathe  away  the  curse  : 
She  led  him,  like  some  midnight  spirit  nurse 
Of  happy  changes  in  emphatic  dreams, 
Along  a  path  between  two  little  streams,  — 
Guarding  his  forehead,  with  her  round  elbow, 
From  low-grown  branches,  and  his  footsteps  slow 
From  stumbling  over  stumps  and  hillocks  small ; 
Until  they  came  to  where  these  streamlets  fall, 
With  mingled  bubblings  and  a  gentle  rush, 
Into  a  river,  clear,  brimful,  and  flush 
With  crystal  mocking  of  the  trees  and  sky. 
A  little  shallop,  floating  there  hard  by, 
Pointed  its  beak  over  the  fringed  bank ; 
And  soon  it  lightly  dipt,  and  rose,  and  sank, 
And  dipt  again,  with  the  young  couple's  weight,— 
Peona  guiding,  through  the  water  straight, 
Towards  a  bowery  island  opposite ; 
Which  gaining  presently,  she  steered  light 
Into  a  shady,  fresh,  and  ripply  cove, 
Where  nested  was  an  arbor,  overwove 
By  many  a  summer's  silent  fingering ; 
To  whose  cool  bosom  she  was  used  to  bring 
Her  playmates,  with  their  needle  broidery, 
And  minstrel  memories  of  times  gone  by. 


BOOK  i.  END  YMION.  69 

So  she  was  gently  glad  to  see  him  laid 
Under  her  favorite  bower's  quiet  shade, 
On  her  own  couch,  new  made  of  flower  leaves, 
Dried  carefully  on  the  cooler  side  of  sheaves 
When  last  the  sun  his  autumn  tresses  shook, 
And  the  tann'd  harvesters  rich  armfuls  took. 
Soon  was  he  quieted  to  slumbrous  rest : 
But,  ere  it  crept  upon  him,  he  had  prest 
Peona's  busy  hand  against  his  lips, 
And  still,  a  sleeping,  held  her  finger-tips 
In  tender  pressure.     And  as  a  willow  keeps 
A  patient  watch  over  the  stream  that  creeps 
Windingly  by  it,  so  the  quiet  maid 
Held  her  in  peace  :  so  that  a  whispering  blade 
Of  grass,  a  wailful  gnat,  a  bee  bustling 
Down  in  the  blue-bells,  or  a  wren  light  rustling 
Among  seer  leaves  and  twigs,  might  all  be  heard. 

O  magic  sleep!  O  comfortable  bird, 
That  broodest  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  the  mind 
Till  it  is  hush'd  and  smooth!  O  unconfin'd 
Restraint!  imprisoned  liberty !  great  key 
To  golden  palaces,  strange  minstrelsy, 
Fountains  grotesque,  new  trees,  bespangled  caves; 
Echoing  grottos,  full  of  tumbling  waves 
And  moonlight ;  aye,  to  all  the  mazy  world 
Of  silvery  enchantment !  —  who,  upfurl'd 
Beneath  thy  drowsy  wing  a  triple  hour, 
But  renovates  and  lives?  —  Thus,  in  the  bower, 
Endymion  was  calm'd  to  life  again. 
Opening  his  eyelids  with  a  healthier  brain, 
He  said  :  "  I  feel  this  thine  endearing  love 
All  through  my  bosom :  thou  art  as  a  dove 
Trembling  its  closed  eyes  and  sleeked  wings 
About  me ;  and  the  pearliest  dew  not  brings 
Such  morning  incense  from  the  fields  of  May, 
As  do  those  brighter  drops  that  twinkling  stray 
From  those  kind  eyes,  —  the  very  home  and  haunt 
Of  sisterly  affection.     Can  I  want 


ENDYMION.  BOOK  i. 

Aught  else,  aught  nearer  heaven,  than  such  tears  ? 

Yet  dry  them  up,  in  bidding  hence  all  fears 

Tnat,  any  longer,  I  will  pass  my  days 

Alone  and  sad.     No,  I  will  once  more  raise 

My  voice  upon  the  mountain-heights  ;  once  more 

Make  my  horn  parley  from  their  foreheads  hoar : 

Again  my  trooping  hounds  their  tongues  shall  loll 

Around  the  breathed  boar:  again  I'll  poll 

The  fair-grown  yew  tree,  for  a  chosen  bow  : 

And,  when  the  pleasant  sun  is  getting  low, 

Again  I'll  linger  in  a  sloping  mead 

To  hear  the  speckled  thrushes,  and  see  feed 

Our  idle  sheep.     So  be  thou  cheered  sweet, 

And,  if  thy  lute  is  here,  softly  intreat 

My  soul  to  keep  in  its  resolved  course." 

Hereat  Peona,  in  their  silver  source, 
Shut  her  pure  sorrow  drops  with  glad  exclaim, 
And  took  a  lute,  from  which  there  pulsing  came 
A  lively  prelude,  fashioning  the  way 
In  which  her  voice  should  wander.     'Twas  a  lay 
More  subtle  cadenced,  more  forest  wild 
Than  Dryope's  lone  lulling  of  her  child  ; 
And  nothing  since  has  floated  in  the  air 
So  mournful  strange.     Surely  some  influence  rare 
Went,  spiritual,  through  the  damsel's  hand ; 
For  still,  with  Delphic  emphasis,  she  spann'd 
The  quick  invisible  strings,  even  though  she  saw 
Endymion's  spirit  melt  away  and  thaw 
Before  the  deep  intoxication. 
But  soon  she  came,  with  sudden  burst,  upon 
Her  self-possession  —  swung  the  lute  aside, 
And  earnestly  said :  "  Brother,  'tis  vain  to  hide 
That  thou  dost  know  of  things  mysterious, 
Immortal,  starry;  such  alone  could  thus 
Weigh  down  thy  nature.     Hast  thou  sinn'd  in  aught 
Offensive  to  the  heavenly  powers  ?     Caught 
A  Paphian  dove  upon  a  message  sent  ? 
Thy  deathful  bow  against  some  deer-herd  bent, 


BOOK  I.  ENDYMION.  71 

Sacred  to  Dian?     Haply,  thou  hast  seen 
Her  naked  limbs  among  the  alders  green  ; 
And  that,  alas!   is  death.     No,  I  can  trace 
Something  more  high  perplexing  in  thy  face! " 

Endymion  look'd  at  her,  and  press'd  her  hand, 
And  said,  "  Art  thou  so  pale,  who  wast  so  bland 
And  merry  in  our  meadows?     How  is  this? 
Tell  me  thine  ailment :  tell  me  all  amiss!  — 
Ah !  thou  hast  been  unhappy  at  the  change 
Wrought  suddenly  in  me.   What  indeed  more  strange  ? 
Or  more  complete  to  overwhelm  surmise? 
Ambition  is  no  sluggard  :  'tis  no  prize, 
That  toiling  years  would  put  within  my  grasp, 
That  I  have  sigh'd  for :  with  so  deadly  gasp 
No  man  e'er  panted  for  a  mortal  love. 
So  all  have  set  my  heavier  grief  above 
These  things  which  happen.    Rightly  have  they  done : 
I,  who  still  saw  the  horizontal  sun 
Heave  his  broad  shoulder  o'er  the  edge  of  the  world, 
Out-facing  Lucifer,  and  then  had  huiTd 
My  spear  aloft,  as  signal  for  the  chace  — 
1,  who,  for  very  sport  of  heart,  would  race 
With  my  own  steed  from  Araby ;  pluck  down 
A  vulture  from  his  towery  perching ;  frown 
A  lion  into  growling,  loth  retire  — 
To  lose,  at  once,  all  my  toil  breeding  fire, 
And  sink  thus  low!  but  I  will  ease  my  breast 
Of  secret  grief,  here  in  this  bowery  nest. 

"  This  river  does  not  see  the  naked  sky, 
Till  it  begins  to  progress  silverly 
Around  the  western  border  of  the  wood, 
Whence,  from  a  certain  spot,  its  winding  flood 
Seems  at  the  distance  like  a  crescent  moon  : 
And  in  that  nook,  the  very  pride  of  June, 
Had  I  been  used  to  pass  my  weary  eves ; 
The  rather  for  the  sun  unwilling  leaves 
So  dear  a  picture  of  his  sovereign  power, 


72  ENDYMION.  BOOK  I. 

And  I  could  witness  his  most  kingly  hour, 

When  he  doth  lighten  up  the  golden  reins, 

And  paces  leisurely  down  amber  plains 

His  snorting  four.     Now  when  his  chariot  last 

Its  beams  against  the  zodiac-lion  cast, 

There  blossom'd  suddenly  a  magic  bed 

Of  sacred  ditamy,  and  poppies  red  : 

At  which  I  wondered  greatly,  knowing  well 

That  but  one  night  had  wrought  this  flower}-  spell ; 

And,  sitting  down  close  by,  began  to  muse 

What  it  might  mean.    Perhaps,  thought  I,  Morpheus, 

In  passing  here,  his  owlet  pinions  shook ; 

Or,  it  may  be,  ere  matron  Night  uptook 

Her  ebon  urn,  young  Mercury,  by  stealth, 

Had  dipt  his  rod  in  it :  such  garland  wealth 

Came  not  by  common  growth.     Thus  on  I  thought, 

Until  my  head  was  dizzy  and  distraught. 

Moreover,  through  the  dancing  poppies  stole 

A  breeze,  most  softly  lulling  to  my  soul ; 

And  shaping  visions  all  about  my  sight 

Of  colors,  wings,  and  bursts  of  spangly  light ; 

The  which  became  more  strange,  and  strange,  and 

dim, 

And  then  were  gulph'd  in  a  tumultuous  swim  : 
And  then  I  fell  asleep.     Ah,  can  I  tell 
The  enchantment  that  afterwards  befel  ? 
Yet  it  was  but  a  dream :  yet  such  a  dream 
That  never  tongue,  although  it  overteem 
With  mellow  utterance,  like  a  cavern  spring, 
Could  figure  out  and  to  conception  bring 
All  I  beheld  and  felt.     Methought  I  lay 
Watching  the  zenith,  where  the  milky  way 
Among  the  stars  in  virgin  splendor  pours  ; 
And  travelling  my  eye,  until  the  doors 
Of  heaven  appear'd  to  open  for  my  flight, 
I  became  loth  and  fearful  to  alight 
From  such  high  soaring  by  a  downward  glance : 
So  kept  me  stedfast  in  that  airy  trance 
Spreading  imaginary  pinions  wide. 


BOOK  I.  ENDYMION.  73 

When,  presently,  the  stars  began  to  glide, 

And  faint  away,  before  my  eager  view  : 

At  which  I  sigh'd  that  I  could  not  pursue, 

And  dropt  my  vision  to  the  horizon's  verge ; 

And  lo!  from  opening  clouds,  I  saw  emerge 

The  loveliest  moon,  that  ever  silver'd  o'er 

A  shell  for  Neptune's  goblet :  she  did  soar 

So  passionately  bright,  my  dazzled  soul 

Commingling  with  her  argent  spheres  did  roll 

Through  clear  and  cloudy,  even  when  she  went 

At  last  into  a  dark  and  vapory  tent  — 

Whereat,  methought,  the  lidless-eyed  train 

Of  planets  all  were  in  the  blue  again. 

To  commune  with  those  orbs,  once  more  I  rais'd 

My  sight  right  upward  :  but  it  was  quite  dazed 

By  a  bright  something,  sailing  down  apace, 

iMaking  me  quickly  veil  my  eyes  and  face : 

Again  I  look'd,  and,  O  ye  deities, 

Who  from  Olympus  watch  our  destinies ! 

Whence  that  completed  form  of  all  completeness? 

Whence  came  that  high  perfection  of  all  sweetness  ? 

Speak,  stubborn  earth,  and  tell  me  where,  O  where 

Hast  thou  a  symbol  of  her  golden  hair? 

Not  oat-sheaves  drooping  in  the  western  sun  ; 

Not  —  thy  soft  hand,  fair  sister!  let  me  shun 

Such  follying  before  thee  —  yet  she  had, 

Indeed,  locks  bright  enough  to  make  me  mad  ; 

And  they  were  simply  gordian'd  up  and  braided, 

Leaving,  in  naked  comeliness,  unshaded, 

Her  pearl  round  ears,  white  neck,  and  orbed  brow ; 

The  which  were  blended  in,  I  know  not  how, 

With  such  a  paradise  of  lips  and  eyes, 

Blush-tinted  cheeks,  half  smiles,  and  faintest  sighs, 

That,  when  I  think  thereon,  my  spirit  clings 

And  plays  about  its  fancy,  till  the  stings 

Of  human  neighborhood  envenom  all. 

Unto  what  awful  power  shall  I  call  ? 

To  what  high  fane  ?  —  Ah !  see  her  hovering  feet, 

More  bluely  vein'd,  more  soft,  more  whitely  sweet 


74  END  YMION.  BOOK  i. 

Than  those  of  sea-born  Venus,  when  she  rose 

From  out  her  cradle  shell.     The  wind  out-blows 

Her  scarf  into  a  fluttering  pavilion  ; 

'Tis  blue,  and  over-spangled  with  a  million 

Of  little  eyes,  as  though  thou  wert  to  shed, 

Over  the  darkest,  lushest  blue-bell  bed, 

Handfuls  of  daisies."  —  •'  Endymion,  how  strange! 

Dream  within  dream! "  —  " She  took  an  airy  range, 

And  then,  towards  me,  like  a  very  maid, 

Came  blushing,  waning,  willing,  and  afraid, 

And  press'd  me  by  the  hand :  Ah !  'twas  too  much ; 

Methought  I  fainted  at  the  charmed  touch, 

Yet  held  my  recollection,  even  as  one 

Who  dives  three  fathoms  where  the  waters  run 

Gurgling  in  beds  of  coral :  for  anon, 

I  felt  upmounted  in  that  region 

Where  falling  stars  dart  their  artillery  forth, 

And  eagles  struggle  with  the  buffeting  north 

That  balances  the  heavy  meteor-stone  ;  — 

Felt  too,  I  was  not  fearful,  nor  alone, 

But  lapp'd  and  lull'd  along  the  dangerous  sky. 

Soon,  as  it  seem'd,  we  left  our  journeying  high, 

And  straightway  into  frightful  eddies  swoop'd; 

Such  as  ay  muster  where  grey  time  has  scoop'd 

Huge  dens  and  caverns  in  a  mountain's  side : 

There  hollow  sounds  arous'd  me,  and  I  sigh'd 

To  faint  once  more  by  looking  on  my  bliss  — 

I  was  distracted ;  madly  did  I  kiss 

The  wooing  arms  which  held  me,  and  did  give 

My  eyes  at  once  to  death  :  but  'twas  to  live, 

To  take  in  draughts  of  life  from  the  gold  fount 

Of  kind  and  passionate  looks  ;  to  count,  and  coun' 

The  moments,  by  some  greedy  help  that  seem'd 

A  second  self,  that  each  might  be  redeenVd 

And  plunder'd  of  its  load  of  blessedness. 

Ah,  desperate  mortal!  I  ev'n  dar'd  to  press 

Her  very  cheek  against  my  crowned  lip, 

And,  at  that  moment,  felt  my  body  dip 

Into  a  warmer  air :  a  moment  more, 


BOOK  I.  END  YMION.  75 

Our  feet  were  soft  in  flowers.     There  was  store 
Of  newest  joys  upon  that  alp.     Sometimes 
A  scent  of  violets,  and  blossoming  limes, 
Loiter'd  around  us  ;  then  of  honey  cells, 
Made  delicate  from  all  white-flower  bells ; 
And  once,  above  the  edges  of  our  nest, 
An  arch  face  peep'd,  —  an  Oread  as  I  guess'd. 

"  Why  did  I  dream  that  sleep  o'er-power'd  me 
In  midst  of  all  this  heaven?     Why  not  see, 
Far  off,  the  shadows  of  his  pinions  dark, 
And  stare  them  from  me?     But  no,  like  a  spark 
That  needs  must  die,  although  its  little  beam 
Reflects  upon  a  diamond,  my  sweet  dream 
Fell  into  nothing  —  into  stupid  sleep. 
And  so  it  was,  until  a  gentle  creep, 
A  careful  moving  caught  my  waking  ears, 
And  up  I  started  :  Ah !  my  sighs,  my  tears, 
My  clenched  hands  ;  —  for  lo!  the  poppies  hung 
Dew-dabbled  on  their  stalks,  the  ouzel  sung 
A  heavy  ditty,  and  the  sullen  day 
Had  chidden  herald  Hesperus  away, 
With  leaden  looks  :  the  solitary  breeze 
Bluster'd,  and  slept,  and  its  wild  self  did  teaze 
With  wayward  melancholy ;  and  I  thought, 
Mark  me,  Peona!  that  sometimes  it  brought 
Faint  fare-thee-wells,  and  sigh-shrilled  adieus !  — 
Away  I  wandered  —  all  the  pleasant  hues 
Of  heaven  and  earth  had  faded  :  deepest  shades 
Were  deepest  dungeons  ;  heaths  and  sunny  glades 
Were  full  of  pestilent  light ;  our  taintless  rills 
Seem'd  sooty,  and  o'er-spread  with  upturn'd  gills 
Of  dying  fish  ;  the  vermeil  rose  had  blown 
In  frightful  scarlet,  and  its  thorns  out-grown 
Like  spiked  aloe.     If  an  innocent  bird 
Before  my  heedless  footsteps  stirr'd,  and  stirr'd 
In  little  journeys,  I  beheld  in  it 
A  disguis'd  demon,  missioned  to  knit 
My  soul  with  under  darkness  ;  to  entice 


76  ENDYMION.  BOOK  i. 

My  stumblings  down  some  monstrous  precipice : 
Therefore  I  eager  followed,  and  did  curse 
The  disappointment.     Time,  that  aged  nurse, 
Rock'd  me  to  patience.     Now,  thank  gentle  heaven! 
These  things,  with  all  their  comfortings,  are  given 
To  my  down-sunken  hours,  and  with  thee, 
Sweet  sister,  help  to  stem  the  ebbing  sea 
Of  weary  life." 

Thus  ended  he,  and  both 
Sat  silent :  for  the  maid  was  very  loth 
To  answer ;  feeling  well  that  breathed  words 
Would  all  be  lost,  unheard,  and  vain  as  swords 
Against  the  enchased  crocodile,  or  leaps 
Of  grasshoppers  against  the  sun.     She  weeps. 
And  wonders ;  struggles  to  devise  some  blame ; 
To  put  on  such  a  look  as  would  say,  Shame 
On  this  poor  weakness !  but,  for  all  her  strife. 
She  could  as  soon  have  crush'd  away  the  life 
From  a  sick  dove.     At  length,  to  break  the  pause, 
She  said  with  trembling  chance  :  "  Is  this  the  cause? 
This  all  ?     Yet  it  is  strange,  and  sad,  alas  ! 
That  one  who  through  this  middle  earth  should  pass 
Most  like  a  sojourning  demi-god,  and  leave 
His  name  upon  the  harp-string,  should  achieve 
No  higher  bard  than  simple  maidenhood. 
Singing  alone,  and  fearfully,  —  how  the  blood 
Left  his  young  cheek  ;  and  how  he  used  to  stray 
He  knew  not  where ;  and  how  he  would  say.  nay, 
If  any  said  'twas  love  :  and  yet  'twas  love  ; 
What  could  it  be  but  love  ?     How  a  ring-dove 
Let  fall  a  sprig  of  yew  tree  in  his  path  : 
And  how  he  died :  and  then,  that  love  doth  scathe, 
The  gentle  heart,  as  northern  blasts  do  roses ; 
And  then  the  ballad  of  his  sad  life  closes 
With  sighs,  and  an  alas!  —  Endymion! 
Be  rather  in  the  trumpet's  mouth,  —  anon 
Among  the  winds  at  large  —  that  all  may  hearken! 
Although,  before  the  crystal  heavens  darken, 


BOOK  I.  ENDYMION.  77 

I  watch  and  dote  upon  the  silver  lakes 

Pictured  in  western  cloudiness,  that  takes 

The  semblance  of  gold  rocks  and  bright  gold  sands, 

Islands,  and  creeks,  and  amber-fretted  strands 

With  horses  prancing  o'er  them,  palaces 

And  towers  of  amethyst,  —  would  I  so  tease 

My  pleasant  days,  because  I  could  not  mount 

Into  those  regions?     The  Morphean  fount 

Of  that  fine  element  that  visions,  dreams, 

And  fitful  whims  of  sleep  are  made  of,  streams 

Into  its  airy  channels  with  so  subtle, 

So  thin  a  breathing,  not  the  spider's  shuttle, 

Circled  a  million  times  within  the  space 

Of  a  swallow's  nest-door,  could  delay  a  trace, 

A  tinting  of  its  quality  :  how  light 

Must  dreams  themselves  be  ;  seeing  they're  more  slight 

Than  the  mere  nothing  that  engenders  them ! 

Then  wherefore  sully  the  encrusted  gem 

Of  high  and  noble  life  with  thoughts  so  sick? 

Why  pierce  high-fronted  honor  to  the  quick 

For  nothing  but  a  dream  ? "     Hereat  the  youth 

Look'd  up  :  a  conflicting  of  shame  and  ruth 

Was  in  his  plaited  brow :  yet  his  eyelids 

Widened  a  little,  as  when  Zephyr  bids 

A  little  breeze  to  creep  between  the  fans 

Of  careless  butterflies  :  amid  his  pains 

He  seem'd  to  taste  a  drop  of  manna-dew, 

Full  palatable  ;  and  a  color  grew 

Upon  his  cheek,  while  thus  he  lifeful  spake. 

"Peona!  ever  have  I  long'd  to  slake 
My  thirst  for  the  world's  praises  :  nothing  base, 
No  merely  slumberous  phantasm,  could  unlace 
The  stubborn  canvas  for  my  voyage  prepared  — 
Though  now  'tis  tatter'd ;  leaving  my  bark  bar'd 
And  sullenly  drifting :  yet  my  higher  hope 
Is  of  too  wide,  too  rainbow-large  a  scope, 
To  fret  at  myriads  of  earthly  wrecks. 
Wherein  lies  happiness?     In  that  which  becks 


f  8  END  YMION.  BOOK  i. 

Dur  ready  minds  to  fellowship  divine, 

,\  fellowship  with  essence  ;  till  we  shine, 

Full  alchemiz'd,  and  free  of  space.     Behold 

The  clear  religion  of  heaven !     Fold 

A  rose  leaf  round  thy  finger's  taperness, 

And  soothe  thy  lips  :  hist,  when  the  airy  stress 

Of  music's  kiss  impregnates  the  free  winds, 

And  with  a  sympathetic  touch  unbinds 

Eolian  magic  from  their  lucid  wombs  : 

Then  old  songs  waken  from  enclouded  tombs ; 

Old  ditties  sigh  above  their  father's  grave  ; 

Ghosts  of  melodious  prophecyings  rave 

Round  every  spot  where  trod  Apollo's  foot ; 

Bronze  clarions  awake,  and  faintly  bruit, 

Where  long  ago  a  giant  battle  was ; 

And,  from  the  turf,  a  lullaby  doth  pass 

In  every  place  where  infant  Orpheus  slept. 

Feel  we  these  things  ?  —  that  moment  have  we  stept 

Into  a  sort  of  oneness,  and  our  state 

Is  like  a  floating  spirit's.     But  there  are 

Richer  entanglements,  enthralments  far 

More  self-destroying,  leading,  by  degrees, 

To  the  chief  intensity :  the  crown  of  these 

Is  made  of  love  and  friendship,  and  sits  high 

Upon  the  forehead  of  humanity. 

All  its  more  ponderous  and  bulky  worth 

Is  friendship,  whence  there  ever  issues  forth 

A  steady  splendor ;  but  at  the  tip-top, 

There  hangs  by  unseen  film,  an  orbed  drop 

Of  light,  and  that  is  love  :  its  influence, 

Thrown  in  our  eyes,  genders  a  novel  sense, 

At  which  we  start  and  fret ;  till  in  the  end, 

Melting  into  its  radiance,  we  blend, 

Mingle,  and  so  become  a  part  of  it,  — 

Nor  with  aught  else  can  our  souls  interknit 

So  wingedly :  when  we  combine  therewith, 

Life's  self  is  nourish'd  by  its  proper  pith, 

And  we  are  nurtured  like  a  pelican  brood. 

Aye,  so  delicious  is  the  unsating  food, 


BOOK  I.  END  YMION.  79 

That  men,  who  might  have  tower'd  in  the  van 

Of  all  the  congregated  world,  to  fan 

And  winnow  from  the  coming  step  of  time 

All  chaff  of  custom,  wipe  away  all  slime 

Left  by  men-slugs  and  human  serpentry, 

Have  been  content  to  let  occasion  die, 

•Whilst  they  did  sleep  in  love's  elysium. 

And,  truly,  I  would  rather  be  struck  dumb, 

Than  speak  against  this  ardent  listlessness  : 

For  I  have  ever  thought  that  it  might  bless 

The  world  with  benefits  unknowingly ; 

As  does  the  nightingale,  upperched  high, 

And  cloister'd  among  cool  and  bunched  leaves  — 

She  sings  but  to  her  love,  nor  e'er  conceives 

How  tiptoe  Night  holds  back  her  dark -grey  hood. 

Just  so  may  love,  although  'tis  understood 

The  mere  commingling  of  passionate  breath, 

Produce  more  than  our  searching  witnesseth  : 

What  I  know  not :  but  who,  of  men,  can  tell 

That  flowers  would  bloom,  or  that  green  fruit  would 

swell 

To  melting  pulp,  that  fish  would  have  bright  mail, 
The  earth  its  dower  of  river,  wood,  and  vale, 
The  meadows  runnels,  runnels  pebble-stones, 
The  seed  its  harvest,  or  the  lute  its  tones, 
Tones  ravishment,  or  ravishment  its  sweet, 
If  human  souls  did  never  kiss  and  greet? 

"  Now,  if  this  earthly  love  has  power  to  make 
Men's  being  mortal,  immortal ;  to  shake 
Ambition  from  their  memories,  and  brim 
Their  measure  of  content ;  what  merest  whim, 
Seems  all  this  poor  endeavor  after  fame, 
To  one,  who  keeps  within  his  stedfast  aim 
A  love  immortal,  an  immortal  too. 
Look  not  so  wilder'd  ;  for  these  things  are  true, 
And  never  can  be  born  of  atomies 
That  buzz  about  our  slumbers,  like  brain-flies, 
Leaving  us  fancy-sick.     No,  no,  I'm  sure, 


8o  END  YMION.  BOOK  i. 

My  restless  spirit  never  could  endure 

To  brood  so  long  upon  one  luxury, 

Unless  it  did,  though  fearfully,  espy 

A  hope  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 

My  sayings  will  the  less  obscured  seem. 

When  I  have  told  thee  how  my  waking  sight 

Has  made  me  scruple  whether  that  same  night 

Was  pass'd  in  dreaming.     Hearken,  sweet  Peona! 

Beyond  the  matron-temple  of  Latona, 

Which  we  should  see  but  for  these  darkening  boughs, 

Lies  a  deep  hollow,  from  whose  ragged  brows 

Bushes  and  trees  do  lean  all  round  athwart, 

And  meet  so  nearly,  that  with  wings  outraught, 

And  spreaded  tail,  a  vulture  could  not  glide 

Past  them,  but  he  must  brush  on  every  side. 

Some  moulder'd  steps  lead  into  this  cool  cell, 

Far  as  the  slabbed  margin  of  a  well, 

Whose  patient  level  peeps  its  crystal  eye 

Right  upward,  through  the  bushes,  to  the  sky. 

Oft  have  I  brought  thee  flowers,  on  their  stalks  set 

Like  vestal  primroses,  but  dark  velvet 

Edges  them  round,  and  they  have  golden  pits : 

'Twas  there  I  got  them,  from  the  gaps  and  slits 

In  a  mossy  stone,  that  sometimes  was  my  seat, 

When  all  above  was  faint  with  mid-day  heat. 

And  there  in  strife  no  burning  thoughts  to  heed, 

Td  bubble  up  the  water  through  a  reed ; 

So  reaching  back  to  boy-hood :  make  me  ships 

Of  moulted  feathers,  touchwood,  alder  chips, 

With  leaves  stuck  in  them  ;  and  the  Neptune  be 

Of  their  petty  ocean.     Oftener,  heavily, 

When  love-lorn  hours  had  left  me  less  a  child, 

I  sat  contemplating  the  figures  wild 

Of  o'er-head  clouds  melting  the  mirror  through. 

Upon  a  day,  while  thus  I  watch'd,  by  flew 

A  cloudy  Cupid,  with  his  bow  and  quiver ; 

So  plainly  character'd,  no  breeze  would  shiver 

The  happy  chance  :  so  happy,  I  was  fain 

To  follow  it  upon  the  open  plain, 


BOOK  i.  ENDYMION.  8 1 

And,  therefore,  was  just  going ;  when,  behold ! 

A  wonder,  fair  as  any  I  have  told  — 

The  same  bright  face  I  tasted  in  my  sleep, 

Smiling  in  the  clear  well.     My  heart  did  leap 

Through  the  cool  depth.  —  It  moved  as  if  to  flee  — 

I  started  up,  when  lo!  refreshfully, 

There  came  upon  my  face,  in  plenteous  showers. 

Dew-drops,  and  dewy  buds,  and  leaves,  and  flowers, 

Wrapping  all  objects  from  my  smothered  sight, 

Bathing  my  spirit  in  a  new  delight. 

Aye,  such  a  breathless  honey-feel  of  bliss 

Alone  preserved  me  from  the  drear  abyss 

Of  death,  for  the  fair  form  had  gone  again. 

Pleasure  is  oft  a  visitant ;  but  pain 

Clings  cruelly  to  us,  like  the  gnawing  sloth 

On  the  deer's  tender  haunches  :  late,  and  loth, 

'Tis  scar'd  away  by  slow  returning  pleasure. 

How  sickening,  how  dark  the  dreadful  leisure 

Of  weary  days,  made  deeper  exquisite, 

By  a  fore-knowledge  of  unslumbrous  night! 

Like  sorrow  came  upon  me,  heavier  still, 

Than  when  I  wander'd  from  the  poppy  hill : 

And  a  whole  age  of  lingering  moments  crept 

Sluggishly  by,  ere  more  contentment  swept 

Away  at  once  the  deadly  yellow  spleen. 

Yes,  thrice  have  I  this  fair  enchantment  seen ; 

Once  more  been  tortured  with  renewed  life. 

When  last  the  wintry  gusts  gave  over  strife 

With  the  conquering  sun  of  spring,  and  left  the  skies 

Warm  and  serene,  but  yet  with  moistened  eyes 

In  pity  of  the  shatter'd  infant  buds, — 

That  time  thou  didst  adorn,  with  amber  studs, 

My  hunting  cap,  because  I  laugh'd  and  smil'd, 

Chatted  with  thee,  and  many  days  exil'd 

All  torment  from  my  breast ;  —  'twas  even  then, 

Straying  about,  yet,  coop'd  up  in  the  den 

Of  helpless  discontent,  —  hurling  my  lance 

From  place  to  place,  and  following  at  chance, 

At  last,  by  hap,  through  some  young  trees  it  struck. 


82  ENDYMION. 


BOOK  I. 


And,  plashing  among  bedded  pebbles,  stuck 

In  the  middle  of  a  brook,  —  whose  silver  ramble 

Down  twenty  little  falls,  through  reeds  and  bramble. 

Tracing  along,  it  brought  me  to  a  cave, 

Whence  it  ran  brightly  forth,  and  white  did  lave 

The  nether  sides  of  mossy  stones  and  rock,  — 

'Mong  which  it  gurgled  blythe  adieus,  to  mock 

Its  own  sweet  grief  at  parting.     Overhead, 

Hung  a  lush  screen  of  drooping  weeds,  and  spread 

Thick,  as  to  curtain  up  some  wood-nymph's  home. 

'  Ah !  impious  mortal,  whither  do  I  roam  ? ' 

Said  I,  low  voic'd  :  '  Ah,  whither!     'Tis  the  grot 

Of  Proserpine,  when  Hell,  obscure  and  hot, 

Doth  her  resign ;  and  where  her  tender  hands 

She  dabbles,  on  the  cool  and  sluicy  sands : 

Or  'tis  the  cell  of  Echo,  where  she  sits. 

And  babbles  thorough  silence,  till  her  wits 

Are  gone  in  tender  madness,  and  anon, 

Faints  into  sleep,  with  many  a  dying  tone 

Of  sadness.     O  that  she  would  take  my  vows. 

And  breathe  them  sighingly  among  the  boughs, 

To  sue  her  gentle  ears  for  whose  fair  head, 

Daily,  I  pluck  sweet  flowerets  from  their  bed, 

And  weave  them  dyingly  —  send  honey-whispers 

Round  every  leaf,  that  all  those  gentle  lispers 

May  sigh  my  love  unto  her  pitying! 

O  charitable  echo!  hear,  and  sing 

This  ditty  to  her!  —  tell  her'  —  so  I  stay'd 

My  foolish  tongue,  and  listening,  half  afraid, 

Stood  stupefied  with  my  own  empty  folly, 

And  blushing  for  the  freaks  of  melancholy. 

Salt  tears  were  coming,  when  I  heard  my  name 

Most  fondly  lipp'd,  and  then  these  accents  came : 

'  Endymion!  the  cave  is  secreter 

Than  the  isle  of  Delos.     Echo  hence  shall  stir 

No  sighs  but  sigh-warm  kisses,  or  light  noise 

Of  thy  combing  hand,  the  while  it  travelling  cloys 

And  trembles  through  my  labyrinthine  hair.' 

At  that  oppress'd  I  hurried  in.  —  Ah!  where 


WX>KI.  ENDYMION.  83 

Are  those  swift  moments?     Whither  are  they  fled? 

I'll  smile  no  more,  Peona ;  nor  will  wed 

Sorrow  the  way  to  death  ;  but  patiently 

Bear  up  against  it :  so  farewel,  sad  sigh  ; 

And  come  instead  demurest  meditation, 

To  occupy  me  wholly,  and  to  fashion 

My  pilgrimage  for  the  world's  dusky  brink. 

No  more  will  i  count  over,  link  by  link, 

My  chain  qf  grief :  no  longer  strive  to  find 

A  half-forgetfulness  in  mountain  wind 

Blustering  about  my  ears  :  aye,  thou  shalt  see, 

Dearest  of  sisters,  what  my  life  shall  be ; 

What  a  calm  round  of  hours  shall  make  my  days. 

There  is  a  paly  flame  of  hope  that  plays 

Where'er  I  look :  but  yet,  I'll  say  'tis  naught  — 

And  here  I  bid  it  die.     Have  not  I  caught, 

Already,  a  more  healthy  countenance  ? 

By  this  the  sun  is  setting;  we  may  chance 

Meet  some  of  our  near-dwellers  with  my  car." 

This  said,  he  rose,  faint-smiling  like  a  star 
Through  autumn  mists,  and  took  Peona's  hand : 
They  stept  into  the  boat,  and  launch'd  from  land. 


ENDYMION. 


BOOK   II. 

O  SOVEREIGN  power  of  love!  O  grief!  O  balm! 

All  records,  saving  thine,  come  cool,  and  calm, 

And  shadowy,  through  the  mist  of  passed  years : 

For  others,  good  or  bad,  hatred  and  tears 

Have  become  indolent ;  but  touching  thine,    . 

One  sigh  doth  echo,  one  poor  sob  doth  pine, 

One  kiss  brings  honey-dew  from  buried  days. 

The  woes  of  Troy,  towers  smothering  o'er  their  blaze. 

Stiff-holden  shields,  far-piercing  spears,  keen  blades, 

Struggling,  and  blood,  and  shrieks  —  all  dimly  fades 

Into  some  backward  corner  of  the  brain  ; 

Yet,  in  our  very  souls,  we  feel  amain 

The  close  of  Troilus  and  Cressid  sweet. 

Hence,  pageant  history!  hence,  gilded  cheat! 

Swart  planet  in  the  universe  of  deeds! 

Wide  sea,  that  one  continuous  murmur  breeds 

Along  the  pebbled  shore  of  memory! 

Many  old  rotten-timber'd  boats  there  be 

Upon  thy  vaporous  bosom,  magnified 

To  goodly  vessels  ;  many  a  sail  of  pride, 

And  golden  keel'd,  is  left  unlaunch'd  and  dry. 

But  wherefore  this  ?    What  care,  though  owl  did  fly 

About  the  great  Athenian  admiral's  mast? 

What  care,  though  striding  Alexander  past 

The  Indus  with  his  Macedonian  numbers? 

Though  old  Ulysses  tortured  from  his  slumbers 

84 


BOOK  II.  END  YM I  ON.  85 

The  glutted  Cyclops,  what  care  ?  —  Juliet  leaning 
Amid  her  window-flowers,  —  sighing,  —  weaning 
Tenderly  her  fancy  from  its  maiden  snow, 
Doth  more  avail  than  these :  the  silver  flow 
Of  Hero's  tears,  the  swoon  of  Imogen, 
Fair  Pastorella  in  the  bandit's  den, 
Are  things  to  brood  on  with  more  ardency 
Than  the  death-day  of  empires.     Fearfully 
Must  such  conviction  come  upon  his  head, 
Who,  thus  far,  discontent,  has  dared  to  tread, 
Without  one  muse's  smile,  or  kind  behest, 
The  path  of  love  and  poesy.     But  rest, 
In  chaffing  restlessness,  is  yet  more  drear 
Than  to  be  crush'd,  in  striving  to  uprear 
Love's  standard  on  the  battlements  of  song. 
So  once  more  days  and  nights  aid  me  along, 
Like  legion'd  soldiers. 

Brain-sick  shepherd-prince, 
What  promise  hast  thou  faithful  guarded  since 
The  day  of  sacrifice?     Or,  have  new  sorrows 
Come  with  the  constant  dawn  upon  thy  morrows? 
Alas!  'tis  his  old  grief.     For  many  days, 
Has  he  been  wandering  in  uncertain  ways  : 
Through  wilderness,  and  woods  of  mossed  oaks  ; 
Counting  his  woe-worn  minutes,  by  the  strokes 
Of  the  lone  woodcutter ;  and  listening  still, 
Hour  after  hour,  to  each  lush-leav'd  rill. 
Now  he  is  sitting  by  a  shady  spring, 
And  elbow-deep  with  feverous  fingering 
Stems  the  upbursting  cold  :  a  wild  rose  tree 
Pavilions  him  in  bloom,  and  he  doth  see 
A  bud  which  snares  his  fancy  :  lo !  but  now 
He  plucks  it,  dips  its  stalk  in  the  water:  how! 
It  swells,  it  buds,  it  flowers  beneath  his  sight; 
And,  in  the  middle,  there  is  softly  pight 
A  golden  butterfly ;  upon  whose  wings 
There  must  be  surely  character'd  strange  things, 
For  with  wide  eye  he  wonders,  and  smiles  oft. 


86  ENDYMION. 


BOOK  II. 


Lightly  this  little  herald  flew  aloft, 
Follow'd  by  glad  Endymion's  clasped  hands  : 
Onward  it  flies.     From  languor's  sullen  bands 
His  limbs  are  loos'd,  and  eager,  on  he  hies 
Dazzled  to  trace  it  in  the  sunny  skies. 
It  seem'd  he  flew,  the  way  so  easy  was ; 
And  like  a  new-born  spirit  did  he  pass 
Through  the  green  evening  quiet  in  the  sun, 
O'er  many  a  heath,  through  many  a  woodland  dun, 
Through  buried  paths,  where  sleepy  twilight  dreams 
The  summer  time  away.     One  track  unseams 
A  wooded  cleft,  and,  far  away,  the  blue 
Of  ocean  fades  upon  him  ;  then,  anew, 
He  sinks  adown  a  solitary  glen, 
Where  there  was  never  sound  of  mortal  men, 
Saving,  perhaps,  some  snow-light  cadences 
Melting  to  silence,  when  upon  the  breeze 
Some  holy  bark  let  forth  an  anthem  sweet, 
To  cheer  itself  to  Delphi.     Still  his  feet 
Went  swift  beneath  the  merry-winged  guide, 
Until  it  reached  a  splashing  fountain's  side 
That,  near  a  cavern's  mouth,  for  ever  pour'd 
Unto  the  temperate  air :  then  high  it  soar'd, 
And,  downward,  suddenly  began  to  dip, 
As  if,  athirst  with  so  much  toil,  'twould  sip 
The  crystal  spout-head :  so  it  did,  with  touch 
Most  delicate,  as  though  afraid  to  smutch 
Even  with  mealy  gold  the  waters  clear. 
But,  at  that  very  touch,  to  disappear 
So  fairy-quick,  was  strange!     Bewildered, 
Endymion  sought  around,  and  shook  each  bed 
Of  covert  flowers  in  vain  ;  and  then  he  flung 
Himself  along  the  grass.     What  gentle  tongue, 
What  whisperer  disturb'd  his  gloomy  rest? 
It  was  a  nymph  uprisen  to  the  breast 
In  the  fountain's  pebbly  margin,  and  she  stood 
'Mong  lilies,  like  the  youngest  of  the  brood. 
To  him  her  dripping  hand  she  softly  kist, 
And  anxiously  began  to  plait  and  twist 


BOOK  ii.  ENDYMION.  87 

Her  ringlets  round  her  fingers,  saying :  "  Youth ! 

Too  long,  alas,  hast  thou  starv'd  on  the  ruth, 

The  bitterness  of  love  :  too  long  indeed, 

Seeing  thou  art  so  gentle.     Could  I  weed 

Thy  soul  of  care,  by  heavens,  I  would  offer 

All  the  bright  riches  of  my  crystal  coffer 

To  Amphitrite  ;  all  my  clear-eyed  fish, 

Golden,  or  rainbow-sided,  or  purplish, 

Vermilion-tail'd,  or  finn'd  with  silvery  gauze ; 

Yea,  or  my  veined  pebble-floor,  that  draws 

A  virgin  light  to  the  deep ;  my  grotto-sands 

Tawny  and  gold,  ooz'd  slowly  from  far  lands 

By  my  diligent  springs ;  my  level  lilies,  shells, 

My  charming  rod,  my  potent  river  spells ; 

Yes,  every  thing,  even  to  the  pearly  cup 

Meander  gave  me,  —  for  I  bubbled  up 

To  fainting  creatures  in  a  desert  wild. 

But  woe  is  me,  I  am  but  as  a  child 

To  gladden  thee  ;  and  all  I  dare  to  say, 

Is,  that  I  pity  thee ;  that  on  this  day 

I've  been  thy  guide  ;  that  thou  must  wander  far 

In  other  regions,  past  the  scanty  bar 

To  mortal  steps,  before  thou  cans't  be  ta'en 

From  every  wasting  sigh,  from  every  pain, 

Into  the  gentle  bosom  of  thy  love. 

Why  it  is  thus,  one  knows  in  heaven  above : 

But,  a  poor  Naiad,  I  guess  not.     Farevvel ! 

I  have  a  ditty  for  my  hollow  cell." 

Hereat,  she  vanished  from  Endymion's  gaze, 
Who  brooded  o'er  the  water  in  amaze  : 
The  dashing  fount  pour'd  on,  and  where  its  pool 
Lay,  half  asleep,  in  grass  and  rushes  cool, 
Quick  waterflies  and  gnats  were  sporting  still, 
And  fish  were  dimpling,  as  if  good  nor  ill 
Had  fallen  out  that  hour.     The  wanderer, 
Holding  his  forehead,  to  keep  off  the  burr 
Of  smothering  fancies,  patiently  sat  down; 
And,  while  beneath  the  evening's  sleepy  frown 
G.iow-worms  began  to  trim  their  starry  lamps, 


88  END  YMION.  BOOK 

Thus  breath'd  he  to  himself:  "Whoso  encamps 

To  take  a  fancied  city  of  delight, 

O  what  a  wretch  is  he  !  and  when  'tis  his, 

After  long  toil  and  travelling,  to  miss 

The  kernel  of  his  hopes,  how  more  than  vile : 

Yet,  for  him  there's  refreshment  even  in  toil ; 

Another  city  doth  he  set  about, 

Free  from  the  smallest  pebble-bead  of  doubt 

That  he  will  seize  on  trickling  honey-combs : 

Alas,  he  finds  them  dry ;  and  then  he  foams, 

And  onward  to  another  city  speeds. 

But  this  is  human  life :  the  war,  the  deeds, 

The  disappointment,  the  anxiety, 

Imagination's  struggles,  far  and  nigh, 

All  human ;  bearing  in  themselves  this  good, 

That  they  are  still  the  air,  the  subtle  food, 

To  make  us  feel  existence,  and  to  shew 

How  quiet  death  is.     Where  soil  is  men  grow, 

Whether  to  weeds  or  flowers  ;  but  for  me, 

There  is  no  depth  to  strike  in :  I  can  see 

Nought  earthly  worth  my  compassing ;  so  stand 

Upon  a  misty,  jutting  head  of  land  — 

Alone  ?     No,  no ;  and  by  the  Orphean  lute, 

When  mad  Eurydice  is  listening  to  't ; 

Td  rather  stand  upon  this  misty  peak, 

With  not  a  thing  to  sigh  for,  or  to  seek, 

But  the  soft  shadow  of  my  thrice-seen  love, 

Than  be  —  I  care  not  what.     O  meekest  dove 

Of  heaven!     O  Cynthia,  ten-times  bright  and  fair! 

From  thy  blue  throne,  now  filling  all  the  air, 

Glance  but  one  little  beam  of  temper'd  light 

Into  my  bosom,  that  the  dreadful  might 

And  tyranny  of  love  be  somewhat  scar'd! 

Yet  do  not  so,  sweet  queen :  one  torment  spar'd, 

Would  give  a  pang  to  jealous  misery, 

Worse  than  the  torment's  self:  but  rather  tie 

Large  wings  upon  my  shoulders,  and  point  out 

My  love's  far  dwelling.     Though  the  playful  rout 

Of  Cupids  shun  thee,  too  divine  art  thou, 

Too  keen  in  beauty,  for  thy  silver  prow 


BOOK  ii.  END  YMION.  89 

Not  to  have  dipp'd  in  love's  most  gentle  stream. 

O  be  propitious,  nor  severely  deem 

My  madness  impious  ;  for,  by  all  the  stars 

That  tend  thy  bidding,  I  do  think  the  bars 

That  kept  my  spirit  in  are  burst  —  that  I 

Am  sailing  with  thee  through  the  dizzy  sky! 

How  beautiful  thou  art!     The  world  how  deep! 

How  tremulous-dazzlingly  the  wheels  sweep 

Around  their  axle!     Then  these  gleaming  reins, 

How  lithe!     When  this  thy  chariot  attains 

Its  airy  goal,  haply  some  bower  veils 

Those  twilight  eyes  ?     Those  eyes!  —  my  spirit  fails  — 

Dear  goddess,  help!  or  the  wide-gaping  air 

Will  gulph  me  —  help !  "  —  At  this   with   madden'd 

stare, 

And  lifted  hands,  and  trembling  lips  he  stood ; 
Like  old  Deucalion  mountain'd  o'er  the  flood. 
Or  blind  Orion  hungry  for  the  morn. 
And,  but  from  the  deep  cavern  there  was  borne 
A  voice,  he  had  been  froze  to  senseless  stone ; 
Nor  sigh  of  his,  nor  plaint,  nor  passion'd  moan 
Had  more  been  heard.     Thus  swell'd  it  forth  :  "  De- 
scend, 

Young  mountaineer!  descend  where  alleys  bend 
Into  the  sparry  hollows  of  the  world! 
Oft  hast  thou  seen  bolts  of  the  thunder  hurl'd 
As  from  thy  threshold ;  day  by  day  hast  been 
A  little  lower  than  the  chilly  sheen 
Of  icy  pinnacles,  and  dipp'dst  thine  arms 
Into  the  deadening  ether  that  still  charms 
Their  marble  being  :  now,  as  deep  profound 
As  those  are  high,  descend!     He  ne'er  is  crown'd 
With  immortality,  who  fears  to  follow 
Where  airy  voices  lead  :  so  through  the  hollow, 
The  silent  mysteries  of  earth,  descend ! " 

He  heard  but  the  last  words,  nor  could  contend 
One  moment  in  reflection  :  for  he  fled 
Into  the  fearful  deep,  to  hide  his  head 
From  the  clear  moon,  the  trees,  and  coming  madness. 


90  END  YMION.  BOOK  il 

'Twas  far  too  strange,  and  wonderful  for  sadness ; 
Sharpening,  by  degrees,  his  appetite 
To  dive  into  the  deepest.     Dark,  nor  light, 
The  region ;  nor  bright,  nor  sombre  wholly, 
But  mingled  up  ;  a  gleaming  melancholy ; 
A  dusky  empire  and  its  diadems ; 
One  faint  eternal  eventide  of  gems. 
Aye,  millions  sparkled  on  a  vein  of  gold, 
Along  whose  track  the  prince  quick  footsteps  told, 
With  all  its  lines  abrupt  and  angular : 
Out-shooting  sometimes,  like  a  meteor-star, 
Through  a  vast  antre ;  then  the  metal  woof, 
Like  Vulcan's  rainbow,  with  some  monstrous  roof 
Curves  hugely :  now,  far  in  the  deep  abyss, 
It  seems  an  angry  lightning,  and  doth  hiss 
Fancy  into  belief:  anon  it  leads 
Through  winding  passages,  where  sameness  breeds 
Vexing  conceptions  of  some  sudden  change  ; 
Whether  to  silver  grots,  or  giant  range 
Of  sapphire  columns,  or  fantastic  bridge 
Athwart  a  flood  of  crystal.     On  a  ridge 
Now  fareth  he,  that  o'er  the  vast  beneath 
Towers  like  an  ocean-cliff,  and  whence  he  seeth 
A  hundred  waterfalls,  whose  voices  come 
But  as  the  murmuring  surge.     Chilly  and  numb 
His  bosom  grew,  when  first  he,  far  away, 
Descried  an  orbed  diamond,  set  to  fray 
Old  darkness  from  his  throne  :  'twas  like  the  sun 
Uprisen  o'er  chaos  :  and  with  such  a  stun 
Came  the  amazement,  that,  absorb'd  in  it, 
He  saw  not  fiercer  wonders  —  past  the  wit 
Of  any  spirit  to  tell,  but  one  of  those 
Who,  when  this  planet's  sphering  time  doth  close, 
Will  be  its  high  remembrancers:  who  they? 
The  mighty  ones  who  have  made  eternal  day 
For  Greece  and  England.     While  astonishment 
With  deep-drawn  sighs  was  quieting,  he  went 
Into  a  marble  gallery,  passing  through 
A  mimic  temple,  so  complete  and  true 


BOOK  n.  ENDYMION.  91 

In  sacred  custom,  that  he  well  nigh  fear'd 
To  search  it  inwards  ;  whence  far  off  appear'd, 
Through  a  long  pillar'd  vista,  a  fair  shrine, 
And,  just  beyond,  on  light  tiptoe  divine, 
A  quiver' d  Dian.     Stepping  awfully, 
The  youth  approach'd ;  oft  turning  his  veil'd  eye 
•Down  sidelong  aisles,  and  into  niches  old. 
And  when,  more  near  against  the  marble  cold 
He  had  touched  his  forehead,  he  began  to  thread 
All  courts  and  passages,  where  silence  dead 
Rous'd  by  his  whispering  footsteps  murmured  faint : 
And  long  he  travers'd  to  and  fro,  to  acquaint 
Himself  with  every  mystery,  and  awe ; 
Till,  weary,  he  sat  down  before  the  maw 
Of  a  wide  outlet,  fathomless  and  dim 
To  wild  uncertainty  and  shadows  grim. 
There,  when  new  wonders  ceas'd  to  float  before, 
And  thoughts  of  self  came  on,  how  crude  and  sore 
The  journey  homeward  to  habitual  self ! 
A  mad-pursuing  of  the  fog-born  elf, 
Whose  flitting  lantern,  through  rude  nettle-briar, 
Cheats  us  into  a  swamp,  into  a  fire, 
Into  the  bosom  of  a  hated  thing. 

What  misery  most  drowningly  doth  sing 
In  lone  Endymion's  ear,  now  he  has  caught 
The  goal  of  consciousness?     Ah,  'tis  the  thought, 
The  deadly  feel  of  solitude  :  for  lo! 
He  cannot  see  the  heavens,  nor  the  flow 
Of  rivers,  nor  hill-flowers  running  wild 
In  pink  and  purple  chequer,  nor,  up-pil'd, 
The  cloudy  rack  slow  journeying  in  the  west, 
Like  herded  elephants  ;  nor  felt,  nor  prest 
Cool  grass,  nor  tasted  the  fresh  slumberous  air  ; 
But  far  from  such  companionship  to  wear 
An  unknown  time,  surcharg'd  with  grief,  away, 
Was  now  his  lot.     And  must  he  patient  stay, 
Tracing  fantastic  figures  with  his  spear? 
"  No!  "  exclaimed  he,  "why  should  I  tarry  here?" 


92  ENDYMTON.  BOOK  II. 

No!  loudly  echoed  times  innumerable. 

At  which  he  straightway  started,  and  'gan  tell 

His  paces  back  into  the  temple's  chief; 

Warming  and  growing  strong  in  the  belief 

Of  help  from  Dian  :  so  that  when  again 

He  caught  her  airy  form,  thus  did  he  plain, 

Moving  more  near  the  while.     "  O  Haunter  chaste 

Of  river  sides,  and  woods,  and  heathy  waste, 

Where  with  thy  silver  bow  and  arrows  keen 

Art  thou  now  forested?     O  woodland  Queen, 

What  smoothest  air  thy  smoother  forehead  woos  ? 

Where  dost  thou  listen  to  the  wide  halloos 

Of  thy  disparted  nymphs  ?     Through  what  dark  tree 

Glimmers  thy  crescent?     Wheresoe'er  it  be, 

Tis  in  the  breath  of  heaven  :  thou  dost  taste 

Freedom  as  none  can  taste  it,  nor  dost  waste 

Thy  loveliness  in  dismal  elements ; 

But,  finding  in  our  green  earth  sweet  contents, 

There  livest  blissfully.     Ah,  if  to  thee 

It  feels  Elysian,  how  rich  to  me, 

An  exil'd  mortal,  sounds  its  pleasant  name ! 

Within  my  breast  there  lives  a  choking  flame  — 

O  let  me  cool  it  among  the  zephyr-boughs! 

A  homeward  fever  parches  up  my  tongue  — 

O  let  me  slake  it  at  the  running  springs! 

Upon  my  ear  a  noisy  nothing  rings  — 

0  let  me  once  more  hear  the  linnet's  note! 

F  efore  mine  eyes  thick  films  and  shadows  float  — 
0 )  let  me  'noint  them  with  the  heaven's  light ! 

1  )ost  thou  now  lave  thy  feet  and  ankles  white? 
)  think  how  sweet  to  me  the  freshening  sluice ! 
Dost  thou  now  please  thy  thirst  with  berry-juice? 
0  think  how  this  dry  palate  would  rejoice! 

If  in  soft  slumber  thou  dost  hear  my  voice, 
Oh  think  how  I  should  love  a  bed  of  flowers!  — 
Young  goddess !  let  me  see  my  native  bowers ! 
Deliver  me  from  this  rapacious  deep !  " 

Thus  ending  loudly,  as  he  would  o'erleap 
His  destiny,  alert  he  stood  :  but  when 


BOOK  II.  .  END  YMION.  93 

Obstinate  silence  came  heavily  again, 

Feeling  about  for  its  old  couch  of  space 

And  airy  cradle,  lowly  bow'd  his  face 

Desponding,  o'er  the  marble  floor's  cold  thrill. 

But  'twas  not  long  ;  for,  sweeter  than  the  rill 

To  its  old  channel,  or  a  swollen  tide 

To  margin  sallows,  were  the  leaves  he  spied, 

And  flowers,  and  wreaths,  and  ready  myrtle  crowns 

Up  heaping  through  the  slab :  refreshment  drowns 

Itself,  and  strives  its  own  delights  to  hide  — 

Nor  in  one  spot  alone  ;  the  floral  pride 

In  a  long  whispering  birth  enchanted  grew 

Before  his  footsteps ;  as  when  heav'd  anew 

Old  ocean  rolls  a  lengthened  wave  to  the  shore, 

Down  whose  green  back  the  short-liv'd  foam,  all  hoar, 

Bursts  gradual,  with  a  wayward  indolence. 

Increasing  still  in  heart,  and  pleasant  sense, 
Upon  his  fairy  journey  on  he  hastes  ; 
So  anxious  for  the  end,  he  scarcely  wastes 
One  moment  with  his  hand  among  the  sweets  : 
Onward  he  goes  —  he  stops  —  his  bosom  beats 
As  plainly  in  his  ear,  as  the  faint  charm 
Of  which  the  throbs  were  born.     This  still  alarm, 
This  sleepy  music,  forc'd  him  walk  tiptoe  : 
For  it  came  more  softly  than  the  east  could  blow 
Arion's  magic  to  the  Atlantic  isles ; 
Or  than  the  west,  made  jealous  by  the  smiles 
Of  thron'd  Apollo,  could  breathe  back  the  lyre 
To  seas  Ionian  and  Tyrian. 

O  did  he  ever  live,  that  lonely  man, 
Who  lov'd  —  and  music  slew  not?     'Tis  the  pest 
Of  love,  that  fairest  joys  give  most  unrest ; 
That  things  of  delicate  and  tenderest  worth 
Are  swallow'd  all,  and  made  a  seared  dearth, 
By  one  consuming  flame :  it  doth  immerse 
And  suffocate  true  blessings  in  a  curse.  . 
Half-happy,  by  comparison  of  bliss, 


94  ENDYMION.  BOOK  n. 

Is  miserable.     'Twas  even  so  with  this 
Dew-dropping  melody,  in  the  Carian's  ear ; 
First  heaven,  then  hell,  and  then  forgotten  clear, 
Vanish'd  in  elemental  passion. 

And  down  some  swart  abysm  he  had  gone, 
Had  not  a  heavenly  guide  benignant  led 
To  where  thick  myrtle  branches,  'gainst  his  head 
Brushing,  awakened  :  then  the  sounds  again 
Went  noiseless  as  a  passing  noontide  rain 
Over  a  bower,  where  little  space  he  stood  ; 
For  as  the  sunset  peeps  into  a  wood 
So  saw  he  panting  light,  and  towards  it  went 
Through  winding  alleys  ;  and  lo,  wonderment! 
Upon  soft  verdure  saw,  one  here,  one  there, 
Cupids  a  slumbering  on  their  pinions  fair. 

After  a  thousand  mazes  overgone, 
At  last,  with  sudden  step,  he  came  upon 
A  chamber,  myrtle  wall'd,  embowered  high, 
Full  of  light,  incense,  tender  minstrelsy, 
And  more  of  beautiful  and  strange  beside : 
For  on  a  silken  couch  of  rosy  pride, 
In  midst  of*all,  there  lay  a  sleeping  youth 
Of  fondest  beauty  ;  fonder,  in  fair  sooth, 
Than  sighs  could  fathom,  or  contentment  'reach : 
And  coverlids  gold-tinted  like  the  peach, 
Or  ripe  October's  faded  marigolds, 
Fell  sleek  about  him  in  a  thousand  folds  — 
Not  hiding  up  an  Apollonian  curve 
Of  neck  and  shoulder,  nor  the  tenting  swerve 
Of  knee  from  knee,  nor  ankles  pointing  light ; 
But  rather,  giving  them  to  the  filled  sight 
Officiously.     Sideway  his  face  repos'd 
On  one  white  arm,  and  tenderly  unclos'd, 
By  tenderest  pressure,  a  faint  damask  mouth 
To  slumbery  pout ;  just  as  the  morning  south 
Disparts  a  dew-lipp?d  rose.     Above  his  head, 
Four  lily  stalks  did  their  white  honors  wed 


BOOK  ii.  END  YM ION.  95 

To  make  a  coronal ;  and  round  him  grew 

All  tendrils  green,  of  every  bloom  and  hue, 

Together  intertwin'd  and  trammel'd  fresh  : 

The  vine  of  glossy  sprout ;  the  ivy  mesh, 

Shading  its  Ethiop  berries  ;  and  woodbine, 

Of  velvet  leaves  and  bugle-blooms  divine ; 

Convolvulus  in  streaked  vases  flush  ; 

The  creeper,  mellowing  for  an  autumn  blush ; 

And  virgin's  bower,  trailing  airily ; 

With  others  of  the  sisterhood.     Hard  by, 

Stood  serene  Cupids  watching  silently. 

One,  kneeling  to  a  lyre,  touch'd  the  strings, 

Muffling  to  death  the  pathos  with  his  wings ; 

And,  ever  and  anon,  uprose  to  look 

At  the  youth's  slumber ;  while  another  took 

A  willow-bough,  distilling  odorous  dew, 

And  shook  it  on  his  hair ;  another  flew 

In  through  the  woven  roof,  and  fluttering- wise 

Rain'd  violets  upon  his  sleeping  eyes. 

At  these  enchantments,  and  yet  many  more, 
The  breathless  Latmian  wonder'd  o'er  and  o'er ; 
Until,  impatient  in  embarrassment, 
He  forthright  pass'd,  and  lightly  treading  went 
To  that  same  feather'd  lyrist,  who  straightway, 
Smiling,  thus  whisper'd  :  "  Though  from  upper  day 
Thou  art  a  wanderer,  and  thy  presence  here 
Might  seem  unholy,  be  of  happy  cheer! 
For  'tis  the  nicest  touch  of  human  honor, 
When  some  ethereal  and  high-favoring  donor 
Presents  immortal  bowers  to  mortal  sense ; 
As  now  'tis  done  to  thee,  Endymion.     Hence 
Was  I  in  no  wise  startled.     So  recline 
Upon  these  living  flowers.     Here  is  wine, 
Alive  with  sparkles  —  never,  I  aver, 
Since  Ariadne  was  a  vintager, 
So  cool  a  purple  :  taste  these  juicy  pears, 
Sent  me  by  sad  Vertumnus,  when  his  fears 
Were  high  about  Pomona :  here  is  cream, 


96  ENDYMION.  BOOKI 

Deepening  to  richness  from  a  snowy  gleam  ; 

Sweeter  than  that  nurse  Amalthea  skimm'd 

For  the  boy  Jupiter :  and  here,  undimm'd 

By  any  touch,  a  bunch  of  blooming  plums 

Ready  to  melt  between  an  infant's  gums : 

And  here  is  manna  pick'd  from  Syrian  trees, 

In  starlight,  by  the  three  Hesperides. 

Feast  on,  and  meanwhile  I  will  let  thee  know 

Of  all  these  things  around  us."     He  did  so, 

Still  brooding  o'er  the  cadence  of  his  lyre ; 

And  thus  :  "  I  need  not  any  hearing  tire 

By  telling  how  the  sea-born  goddess  pin'd 

For  a  mortal  youth,  and  how  she  strove  to  bind 

Him  all  in  all  unto  her  doting  self. 

Who  would  not  be  so  prison'd?  but,  fond  elf, 

He  was  content  to  let  her  amorous  plea 

Faiat  through  his  careless  arms ;  content  to  see 

An  unseiz'd  heaven  dying  at  his  feet ; 

Content,  O  fool !  to  make  a  cold  retreat, 

When  on  the  pleasant  grass  such  love,  lovelorn, 

Lay  sorrowing ;  when  every  tear  was  born 

Of  diverse  passion  ;  when  her  lips  and  eyes 

Were  clos'd  in  sullen  moisture,  and  quick  sighs 

Came  vex'd  and  pettish  through  her  nostrils  small. 

Hush!  no  exclaim  —  yet,  justly  mightst  thou  call 

Curses  upon  his  head.  —  I  was  half  glad, 

But  my  poor  mistress  went  distract  and  mad, 

When  the  boar  tusk'd  him  :  so  away  she  flew 

To  Jove's  high  throne,  and  by  her  plainings  drew 

Immortal  tear-drops  down  the  thunderer's  beard ; 

Whereon,  it  was  decreed  he  should  be  rear'd 

Each  summer  time  to  life.     Lo!  this  is  he, 

That  same  Adonis,  safe  in  the  privacy 

Of  this  still  region  all  his  winter-sleep. 

Aye,  sleep ;  for  when  our  love-sick  queen  did  weep 

Over  his  waned  corse,  the  tremulous  shower 

Heal'd  up  the  wound,  and,  with  a  balmy  power, 

Medicmed  death  to  a  lengthened  drowsiness  : 

The  which  she  fills  with  visions,  and  doth  dress 


BOOK  II.  ENDYMION.  97 

In  all  this  quiet  luxury ;  and  hath  set 
Us  young  immortals,  without  any  let, 
To  watch  his  slumber  through.     'Tis  well  nigh  pass'd, 
Even  to  a  moment's  filling  up,  and  fast 
She  scuds  with  summer  breezes,  to  pant  through 
The  first  long  kiss,  warm  firstling,  to  renew 
Embower'd  sports  in  Cytherea's  isle. 
Look!  how  those  winged  listeners  all  this  while 
Stand  anxious  :  see!  behold!"  —  This  clamant  word 
Broke  through  the  careful  silence  ;  for  they  heard 
A  rustling  noise  of  leaves,  and  out  there  flutter'd 
Pigeons  and  doves  :  Adonis  something  mutter'd, 
The  while  one  hand,  that  erst  upon  his  thigh 
Lay  dormant,  mov'd  convuls'd  and  gradually 
Up  to  his  forehead.     Then  there  was  a  hum 
Of  sudden  voices,  echoing,  "Come!  come! 
Arise!  awake!     Clear  summer  has  forth  walk'd 
Unto  the  clover-sward,  and  she  has  talk'd 
Full  soothingly  to  every  nested  finch  : 
Rise,  Cupids!  or  we'll  give  the  blue-bell  pinch 
To  your  dimpled  arms .     Once  more  sweet  life  begin ! " 
At  this,  from  every  side  they  hurried  in, 
Rubbing  their  sleepy  eyes  with  lazy  wrists, 
And  doubling  overhead  their  little  fists 
In  backward  yawns.     But  all  were  soon  alive : 
For  as  delicious  wine  doth,  sparkling,  dive 
In  nectar'd  clouds  and  curls  through  water  fair, 
So  from  the  arbor  roof  down  swell'd  an  air 
Odorous  and  enlivening ;  making  all 
To  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing,  and  loudly  call 
For  their  sweet  queen  :  when  lo !  the  wreathed  green 
Disparted,  and  far  upward  could  be  seen 
Blue  heaven,  and  a  silver  car,  air-borne, 
Whose  silent  wheels,  fresh  wet  from  clouds  of  morn, 
Spun  off  a  drizzling  dew,  —  which  falling  chill 
On  soft  Adonis'  shoulders,  made  him  still 
Nestle  and  turn  uneasily  about. 

Soon  were  the  white  doves  plain,  with  necks  stretch'd 
out, 


9g  E.VD  YMION.  BOOK  n 

And  silken  traces  lighten'd  in  descent ; 

And  soon,  returning  from  love's  banishment, 

Queen  Venus  leaning  downward  open  arm'd : 

Her  shadow  fell  upon  his  breast,  and  charnVd 

A  tumult  to  his  heart,  and  a  new  life 

Into  his  eyes.    Ah,  miserable  strife, 

But  for  her  comforting!  unhappy  sight, 

But  meeting  her  blue  orbs!    Who,  who  can  write 

Of  these  first  minutes?     The  unchariest  muse 

To  embracements  warm  as  theirs  makes  coy  excuse. 

O  it  has  ruffled  every  spirit  there, 
Saving  love's  self,  who  stands  superb  to  share 
The  general  gladness :  awfully  he  stands ; 
A  sovereign  quell  is  in  his  waving  hands ; 
No  sight  can  bear  the  lightning  of  his  bow ; 
His  quiver  is  mysterious,  none  can  know 
What  themselves  think  of  it ;  from  forth  his  eyes« 
There  darts  strange  light  of  varied  hues  and  dyes : 
A  scowl  is  sometimes  on  his  brow,  but  who 
Look  full  upon  it  feel  anon  the  blue 
Of  his  fair  eyes  run  liquid  through  their  souls. 
Endymion  feels  it,  and  no  more  controls 
The  burning  prayer  within  him  ;  so,  bent  low, 
He  had  begun  a  plaining  of  his  woe. 
But  Venus,  bending  forward,  said :  "  My  child, 
Favor  this  gentle  youth  ;  his  days  are  wild 
With  love  —  he  —  but  alas!  too  well  I  see 
Thou  know'st  the  deepness  of  his  misery. 
Ah,  smile  not  so,  my  son :  I  tell  thee  true, 
That  when  through  heavy  hours  I  used  to  rue 
The  endless  sleep  of  this  new-born  Adon' 
This  stranger  ay  I  pitied.     For  upon 
A  dreary  morning  once  I  fled  away 
Into  the  breezy  clouds,  to  weep  and  pray 
For  this  my  love :  for  vexing  Mars  had  teaz'd 
Me  even  to  tears  :  thence,  when  a  little  eas'd, 
Down-looking,  vacant,  through  a  hazy  wood, 
I  saw  this  youth  as  he  despairing  stood : 


BOOK  ii.  ENDYMION,  99 

Those  same  dark  curls  blown  vagrant  in  the  wind : 
Those  same  full  fringed  lids  a  constant  blind 
Over  his  sullen  eyes :  I  saw  him  throw 
Himself  on  wither'd  leaves,  even  as  though 
Death  had  come  sudden ;  for  no  jot  he  mov'd, 
Yet  mutter'd  wildly.     I  could  hear  he  lov'd 
Some  fair  immortal,  and  that  his  embrace 
Had   zoned   her  through   the   night.     There  is   no 

trace 

Of  this  in  heaven  :  I  have  mark'd  each  cheek, 
And  find  it  is  the  vainest  thing  to  seek ; 
And  that  of  all  things  'tis  kept  secretest. 
Endymion!  one  day  thou  wilt  be  blest: 
So  still  obey  the  guiding  hand  that  fends 
Thee  safely  through  these  wonders  for  sweet  ends. 
'Tis  a  concealment  needful  in  extreme ; 
And  if  I  guess'd  not  so,  the  sunny  beam 
Thou  shouldst  mount  up  to  with  me.     Now  adieu! 
Here  must  we   leave  thee."  —  At  these  words  up 

flew 

The  impatient  doves,  up  rose  the  floating  car, 
Up  went  the  hum  celestial.     High  afar 
The  Latmian  saw  them  minish  into  nought ; 
And,  when  all  were  clear  vanish'd,  still  he  caught 
A  vivid  lightning  from  that  dreadful  bow. 
When  all  was  darkened,  with  Etnean  throe 
The  earth  clos'd  —  gave  a  solitary  moan  — 
And  left  him  once  again  in  twilight  lone. 

He  did  not  rave,  he  did  not  stare  aghast, 
For  all  those  visions  were  o'ergone,  and  past, 
And  he  in  loneliness  :  he  felt  assur'd 
Of  happy  times,  when  all  he  had  endur'd 
Would  seem  a  feather  to  the  mighty  prize. 
So,  with  unusual  gladness,  on  he  hies 
Through  caves,  and  palaces  of  mottled  ore, 
Gold  dome,  and  crystal  wall,  and  turquois  floor, 
Black  polished  porticos  of  awful  shade, 
And,  at  the  last,  a  diamond  balustrade, 


ioo  ENDYMION.  BOOK  n. 

Leading  afar  past  wild  magnificence, 
Spiral  through  ruggedest  loopholes,  and  thence 
Stretching  across  a  void,  then  guiding  o'er 
Enormous  chasms,  where,  all  foam  and  roar, 
Streams  subterranean  tease  their  granite  beds  ; 
Then  heighten'd  just  above  the  silvery  heads 
Of  a  thousand  fountains,  so  that  he  could  dash 
The  waters  with  his  spear;  but  at  the  splash, 
Done  heedlessly,  those  spouting  columns  rose 
Sudden  a  poplar's  height,  and  'gan  to  enclose 
His  diamond  path  with  fretwork,  streaming  round 
Alive,  and  dazzling  cool,  and  with  a  sound, 
Haply,  like  dolphin  tumults,  when  sweet  shells 
Welcome  the  float  of  Thetis.     Long  he  dwells 
On  this  delight ;  for,  every  minute's  space, 
The  streams  with  changed  magic  interlace : 
Sometimes  like  delicatest  lattices, 
Cover'd  with  crystal  vines  ;  then  weeping  trees, 
Moving  about  as  in  a  gentle  wind, 
Which,  in  a  wink,  to  watery  gauze  refin'd, 
Pour'd  into  shapes  of  curtain' d  canopies, 
Spangled,  and  rich  with  liquid  broideries 
Of  flowers,  peacocks,  swans,  and  naiads  fair. 
Swifter  than  lightning  went  these  wonders  rare  ; 
And  then  the  water,  into  stubborn  streams 
Collecting,  mimick'd  the  wrought  oaken  beams, 
Pillars,  and  frieze,  and  high  fantastic  roof, 
Of  those  dusk  places  in  times  far  aloof 
Cathedrals  call'd.     He  bade  a  loth  farewel 
To  these  founts  Protean,  passing  gulph,  and  dell, 
And  torrent,  and  ten  thousand  jutting  shapes, 
Half  seen  through  deepest  gloom,  and  griesly  gapes, 
Blackening  on  every  side,  and  overhead 
A  vaulted  dome  like  Heaven's,  far  bespread 
With  starlight  gems :  aye,  all  so  huge  and  strange, 
The  solitary  felt  a  hurried  change 
Working  within  him  into  something  dreary,  — 
VexM  like  a  morning  eagle,  lost,  and  weary, 
And  purblind  amid  foggy,  midnight  wolds. 


BOOK  II.  ENDYMION.  IOI 

But  he  revives  at  once  :  for  xvho  beholds 
New  sudden  things,  nor  casts  his  mental  slough  ? 
Forth  from  a  rugged  arch,  in  the  dusk  below, 
Came  mother  Cybele !  alone  —  alone  — 
In  sombre  chariot;  dark  foldings  thrown 
About  her  majesty,  and  front  death-pale, 
With  turrets  crown'd.     Four  maned  lions  hale 
The  sluggish  wheels  ;  solemn  their  toothed  maws, 
Their  surly  eyes  brow-hidden,  heavy  paws 
Uplifted  drowsily,  and  nervy  tails 
Cowering  their  tawny  brushes.     Silent  sails 
This  shadowy  queen  athwart,  and  faints  away 
In  another  gloomy  arch. 

Wherefore  delay, 

Young  traveller,  in  such  a  mournful  place  ? 
Art  thou  wayworn,  or  canst  not  further  trace 
The  diamond  path  ?     And  does  it  indeed  end 
Abrupt  in  middle  air?     Yet  earthward  bend 
Thy  forehead,  and  to  Jupiter  cloud-borne 
Call  ardently!     He  was  indeed  wayworn; 
Abrupt,  in  middle  air,  his  way  was  lost ; 
To  cloud-borne  Jove  he  bowed,  and  there  crost 
Towards  him  a  large  eagle,  'twixt  whose  wings, 
Without  one  impious  word,  himself  he  flings, 
Committed  to  the  darkness  and  the  gloom : 
Down,  down,  uncertain  to  what  pleasant  doom, 
Swift  as  a  fathoming  plummet  down  he  fell 
Through  unknown  things ;  till  exhaled  asphodel. 
And  rose,  with  spicy  fannings  interbreath'd, 
Came  swelling  forth  where  little  caves  were  wreath'd 
So  thick  with  leaves  and  mosses,  that  they  seem'd 
Large  honey-combs  of  green,  and  freshly  teem'd 
With  airs  delicious.     In  the  greenest  nook 
The  eagle  landed  him,  and  farewel  took. 

It  was  a  jasmine  bower,  all  bestrown 
With  golden  moss.     His  every  sense  had  grown 
Ethereal  for  pleasure  ;  'bove  his  head 


102  END  YMION.  BOOK  « 

Flew  a  delight  half-graspable  ;  his  tread 

Was  Hesperean ;  to  his  capable  ears 

Silence  was  music  from  the  holy  spheres  ; 

A  dewy  luxury  was  in  his  eyes ; 

The  little  flowers  felt  his  pleasant  sighs 

And  stirr'd  them  faintly.     Verdant  cave  and  cell 

He  wander'd  through,  oft  wondering  at  such  swell 

Of  sudden  exaltation  :  but,  "  Alas ! " 

Said*  he,  "will  all  this  gush  of  feeling  pass 

Away  in  solitude  ?    And  must  they  wane, 

Like  melodies  upon  a  sandy  plain, 

Without  an  echo?    Then  shall  I  be  left 

So  sad,  so  melancholy,  so  bereft! 

Yet  still  I  feel  immortal !     O  my  love, 

My  breath  of  life,  where  art  thou?     High  above, 

Dancing  before  the  morning  gates  of  heaven  ? 

Or  keeping  watch  among  those  starry  seven, 

Old  Atlas'  children  ?     Art  a  maid  of  the  waters, 

One  of  shell-winding  Triton's  bright-hair'd  daughters? 

Or  art,  impossible!  a  nymph  of  Dian's, 

Weaving  a  coronal  of  tender  scions 

For  very  idleness  ?    Where'er  thou  art, 

Methinks  it  now  is  at  my  will  to  start 

Into  thine  arms  ;  to  scare  Aurora's  train, 

And  snatch  thee  from  the  morning ;  o'er  the  main 

To  scud  like  a  wild  bird,  and  take  thee  off 

From  thy  sea-foamy  cradle ;  or  to  doff 

Thy  shepherd  vest,  and  woo  thee  mid  fresh  leaves. 

No,  no,  too  eagerly  my  soul  deceives 

Its  powerless  self:  I  know  this  cannot  be. 

O  let  me  then  by  some  sweet  dreaming  flee 

To  her  entrancements  :  hither  sleep  awhile! 

Hither  most  gentle  sleep!  and  soothing  foil 

For  some  few  hours  the  coming  solitude." 

Thus  spake  he,  and  that  moment  felt  endued 
With  power  to  dream  deliriously ;  so  wound 
Through  a  dim  passage,  searching  till  he  found 
The  smoothest  mossy  bed  and  deepest,  where 


BOOK  it.  ENDYMION.  103 

He  threw  himself,  and  just  into  the  air 

Stretching  his  indolent  arms,  he  took,  O  bliss! 

A  naked  waist :  "  Fair  Cupid,  whence  is  this  ?  " 

A  well-known  voice  sigh'd,  "  Sweetest,  here  am  I !  " 

At  which  soft  ravishment,  with  doating  cry 

They  trembled  to  each  other.  — Helicon! 

O  fountain'd  hill!     Old  Homer's  Helicon! 

That  thou  wouldst  spout  a  little  streamlet  o'er 

These  sorry  pages  ;  then  the  verse  would  soar. 

And  sing  above  this  gentle  pair,  like  lark 

Over  his  nested  young :  but  all  is  dark 

Around  thine  aged  top,  and  thy  clear  fount 

Exhales  in  mists  to  heaven.     Aye,  the  count 

Of  mighty  Poets  is  made  up ;  the  scroll 

Is  folded  by  the  Muses ;  the  bright  roll 

Is  in  Apollo's  hand :  our  dazed  eyes 

Have  seen  a  new  tinge  in  the  western  skies : 

The  world  has  done  its  duty.     Yet,  oh  yet, 

Although  the  sun  of  poesy  is  set, 

These  lovers  did  embrace,  and  we  must  weep 

That  there  is  no  old  power  left  to  steep 

A  quill  immortal  in  their  joyous  tears. 

Long  time  in  silence  did  their  anxious  fears 

Question  that  thus  it  was ;  long  time  they  lay 

Fondling  and  kissing  every  doubt  away ; 

Long  time  ere  soft  caressing  sobs  began 

To  mellow  into  words,  and  then  there  ran 

Two  bubbling  springs  of  talk  from  their  sweet  lips. 

" O  known  Unknown!  from  whom  my  being  sips 

Such  darling  essence,  wherefore  may  I  not 

Be  ever  in  these  arms  ?  in  this  sweet  spot 

Pillow  my  chin  for  ever?  ever  press 

These  toying  hands  and  kiss  their  smooth  excess  ? 

Why  not  for  ever  and  for  ever  feel 

That  breath  about  my  eyes?     Ah,  thou  wilt  steal 

Away  from  me  again,  indeed,  indeed  — 

Thou  wilt  be  gone  away,  and  win  not  hee6 

My  lonely  madness.     Speak,  my  kindest  fair1 

Is  —  is  it  to  be  so?    No!     Who  will  dare 


104  END  YM ION.  BOOK  11. 

To  pluck  thee  from  me  ?    And,  of  thine  own  will, 
Full  well  I  feel  thou  wouldst  not  leave  me.     Still 
Let  me  entwine  thee  surer,  surer  —  now 
How  can  we  part?    Elysium!  who  art  thou? 
Who,  that  thou  canst  not  be  for  ever  here. 
Or  lift  me  with  thee  to  some  starry  sphere? 
Enchantress!  tell  me  by  this  soft  embrace, 
By  the  most  soft  completion  of  thy  face, 
Those  lips,  O  slippery  blisses,  twinkling  eyes. 
And  by  these  tenderest,  milky  sovereignties  — 
These  tenderest,  and  by  the  nectar-wine, 

The  passion" "  O  lov'd  Ida  the  divine! 

Endymion!  dearest!     Ah,  unhappy  me! 

His  soul  will  'scape  us  —  O  felicity! 

How  he  does  love  me!     His  poor  temples  beat 

To  the  very  tune  of  love  —  how  sweet,  sweet,  sweet. 

Revive,  dear  youth,  or  I  shall  faint  and  die ; 

Revive,  or  these  soft  hours  will  hurry  by 

In  tranced  dulness;  speak,  and  let  that  spell 

Affright  this  lethargy!  I  cannot  quell 

Its  heavy  pressure,  and  will  press  at  least 

My  lips  to  thine,  that  they  may  richly  feast 

Until  we  taste  the  life  of  love  again. 

What!  dost  thou  move?  dost  kiss?     O  bliss!  Opain! 

!  love  thee,  youth,  more  than  I  can  conceive ; 

And  so  long  absence  from  thee  doth  bereave 

My  soul  of  any  rest :  yet  must  I  hence  : 

Yet,  can  I  not  to  starry  eminence 

Uplift  thee ;  nor  for  very  shame  can  own 

Myself  to  thee.     Ah,  dearest,  do  not  groan 

Or  thou  wilt  force  me  from  this  secrecy, 

And  I  must  blush  in  heaven.     O  that  I 

Had  done  it  already ;  that  the  dreadful  smiles 

At  my  lost  brightness,  my  impassion'd  wiles, 

Had  waned  from  Olympus'  solemn  height, 

And  from  all  serious  Gods ;  that  our  delight 

Was  quite  forgotten,  save  of  us  alone! 

And  v.herefore  so  ashamed?    Tis  but  to  atone 

For  endless  pleasure,  by  some  coward  blushes : 


BOOK  II.  END  YMION.  105 

Yet  must  I  be  a  coward!  —  Horror  rushes 
Too  palpable  before  me  —  the  sad  look 
Of  Jove  —  Minerva's  start  —  no  bosom  shook 
With  awe  of  purity  —  no  Cupid  pinion 
In  reverence  veiled  —  my  crystaline  dominion 
Half  lost,  and  all  old  hymns  made  nullity! 
But  what  is  this  to  love?     O  I  could  fly 
With  thee  into  the  ken  of  heavenly  powers, 
So  thou  wouldst  thus,  for  many  sequent  hours, 
Press  me  so  sweetly.     Now  I  swear  at  once 
That  I  am  wise,  that  Pallas  is  a  dunce  — 
Perhaps  her  love  like  mine  is  but  unknown  — 

0  I  do  think  that  I  have  been  alone 

In  chastity :  yes,  Pallas  has  been  sighing, 
While  every  eve  saw  me  my  hair  uptying 
With  fingers  cool  as  aspen  leaves.  Sweet  love, 

1  was  as  vague  as  solitary  dove, 

Nor  knew  that  nests  were  built.     Now  a  soft  kiss  — 

Aye,  by  that  kiss,  I  vow  an  endless  bliss, 

An  immortality  of  passion's  thine  : 

Ere  long  I  will  exalt  thee  to  the  shine 

Of  heaven  ambrosial ;  and  we  will  shade 

Ourselves  whole  summers  by  a  river  glade ; 

And  I  will  tell  thee  stories  of  the  sky, 

And  breathe  thee  whispers  of  its  minstrelsy. 

My  happy  love  will  overwing  all  bounds! 

O  let  me  melt  into  thee ;  let  the  sounds 

Of  our  close  voices  marry  at  their  birth ; 

Let  us  entwine  hoveringly  —  O  dearth 

Of  human  words!  roughness  of  mortal  speech! 

Lispings  empyrean  will  I  sometime  teach 

Thine  honied  tongue  —  lute-breathings,  which  I  gasp 

To  have  thee  understand,  now  while  I  clasp 

Thee  thus,  and  weep  for  fondness  —  I  am  pain'd, 

Endymion:  woe!  woe!  is  grief  contain'd 

In  the  very  deeps  of  pleasure,  my  sole  life?"  — 

Hereat,  with  many  sobs,  her  gentle  strife 

Melted  into  a  languor.     He  return'd 

Entranced  vows  and  tears. 


T06  END  YM ION.  BOOK  11. 

Ye  who  have  yearn'd 

With  too  much  passion,  will  here  stay  and  pity, 
For  the  mere  sake  of  truth  ;  as  'tis  a  ditty 
Not  of  these  days,  but  long  ago  'twas  told 
By  a  cavern  wind  unto  a  forest  old  ; 
And  then  the  forest  told  it  in  a  dream 
To  a  sleeping  lake,  whose  cool  and  level  gleam 
A  poet  caught  as  he  was  journeying 
To  Phoebus1  shrine ;  and  in  it  he  did  fling 
His  weary  limbs,  bathing  an  hour's  space, 
And  after,  straight  in  that  inspired  place 
He  sang  the  story  up  into  the  air, 
Giving  it  universal  freedom.     There 
Has  it  been  ever  sounding  for  those  ears 
Whose  tips  are  glowing  hot.     The  legend  cheers 
Yon  centinel  stars ;  and  he  who  listens  to  it 
Must  surely  be  self-doomed  or  he  will  rue  it : 
For  quenchless  burnings  come  upon  the  heart, 
Made  fiercer  by  a  fear  lest  any  part 
Should  be  engulphed  in  the  eddying  wind. 
As  much  as  here  is  penn'd  doth  always  find 
A  resting  place,  thus  much  comes  clear  and  plain ; 
Anon  the  strange  voice  is  upon  the  wane  — 
And  'tis  but  echo'd  from  departing  sound, 
That  the  fair  visitant  at  last  unwound 
Her  gentle  limbs,  and  left  the  youth  asleep.  — 
Thus  the  tradition  of  the  gusty  deep. 

Now  turn  we  to  our  former  chroniclers.  — 
Endymion  awoke,  that  grief  of  hers 
Sweet  paining  on  his  ear :  he  sickly  guess'd 
How  lone  he  was  once  more,  and  sadly  press'd 
His  empty  arms  together,  hung  his  head, 
And  most  forlorn  upon  that  widow'd  bed 
Sat  silently.     Love's  madness  he  had  known : 
Often  with  more  than  tortured  lion's  groan 
Moanings  had  burst  from  him ;  but  now  that  rage 
Had  pass'd  away :  no  longer  did  he  wage 
A  rough-voic'd  war  against  the  dooming  stars. 


BOOK  ii.  ENDYMION.  107 

No,  he  had  felt  too  much  for  such  harsh  jars : 

The  lyre  of  his  soul  Eolian  tun'd 

Forgot  all  violence,  and  but  commun'd 

With  melancholy  thought :  O  he  had  swoon'd 

Drunken  from  pleasure's  nipple ;  and  his  love 

Henceforth  was  dove-like.  —  Loth  was  he  to  move 

From  the  imprinted  couch,  and  when  he  did, 

'Twas  with  slow,  languid  paces,  and  face  hid 

In  muffling  hands.     So  temper'd,  out  he  stray'd 

Half  seeing  visions  that  might  have  dismay'd 

Alecto's  serpents  ;  ravishments  more  keen 

Than  Hermes'  pipe,  when  anxious  he  did  lean 

Over  eclipsing  eyes  :  and  at  the  last 

It  was  a  sounding  grotto,  vaulted,  vast, 

O'er  studded  with  a  thousand,  thousand  pearls, 

And  crimson  mouthed  shells  with  stubborn  curls, 

Of  every  shape  and  size,  even  to  the  bulk 

In  which  whales  arbor  close,  to  brood  and  sulk 

Against  an  endless  storm.     Moreover  too, 

Fish-semblances,  of  green  and  azure  hue, 

Ready  to  snort  their  streams.     In  this  cool  wonder 

Endymion  sat  down,  and  'gan  to  ponder 

On  all  his  life :  his  youth,  up  to  the  day 

When  'mid  acclaim,  and  feasts,  and  garlands  gay, 

He  stept  upon  his  shepherd  throne :  the  look 

Of  his  white  palace  in  wild  forest  nook, 

And  all  the  revels  he  had  lorded  there : 

Each  tender  maiden  whom  he  once  thought  fair, 

With  every  friend  and  fellow-woodlander  — 

Pass'd  like  a  dream  before  him.     Then  the  spur 

Of  the  old  bards  to  mighty  deeds  :  his  plans 

To  nurse  the  golden  age  'mong  shepherd  clans : 

That  wondrous  night :  the  great  Pan-festival : 

His  sister's  sorrow  ;  and  his  wanderings  all, 

Until  into  the  earth's  deep  maw  he  rush'd : 

Then  all  its  buried  magic,  till  it  flush'd 

High  with  excessive  love.     "  And  now,"  thought  he, 

"  How  long  must  I  remain  in  jeopardy 

Of  blank  amazements  that  amaze  no  more? 


io8  ENDYMION.  BOOK  n 

Now  I  have  tasted  her  sweet  soul  to  the  core 
All  other  depths  are  shallow  :  essences, 
Once  spiritual,  are  like  muddy  lees, 
Meant  but  to  fertilize  my  earthly  root, 
And  make  my  branches  lift  a  golden  fruit 
Into  the  bloom  of  heaven  :  other  light, 
Though  it  be  quick  and  sharp  enough  to  blight 
The  Olympian  eagle's  vision,  is  dark, 
Dark  as  the  parentage  of  chaos.     Hark! 
My  silent  thoughts  are  echoing  from  these  shells ; 
Or  they  are  but  the  ghosts,  the  dying  swells 
Of  noises  far  away  ?  —  list !  "  —  Hereupon 
He  kept  an  anxious  ear.     The  humming  tone 
Came  louder,  and  behold,  there  as  he  lay. 
On  either  side  outgush'd,  with  misty  spray, 
A  copious  spring ;  and  both  together  dash'd 
Swift,  mad,  fantastic  round  the  rocks,  and  lash'd 
Among  the  conchs  and  shells  of  the  lofty  grot. 
Leaving  a  trickling  dew.     At  last  they  shot 
Down  from  the  ceiling's  height,  pouring  a  noise 
As  of  some  breathless  racers  whose  hopes  poize 
Upon  the  last  few  steps,  and  with  spent  force 
Along  the  ground  they  took  a  winding  course. 
Endymion  follow'd  —  for  it  seem'd  that  one 
Ever  pursued,  the  other  strove  to  shun  — 
Follow'd  their  languid  mazes,  till  well  nigh 
He  had  left  thinking  of  the  mystery.  — 
And  was  now  rapt  in  tender  hoverings 
Over  the  vanish'd  bliss.     Ah!  what  is  it  sings 
His  dream  away?     What  melodies  are  these? 
They  sound  as  through  the  whispering  of  trees 
Not  native  in  such  barren  vaults.     Give  ear! 

"  O  Arethusa,  peerless  nymph !  why  fear 
Such  tenderness  as  mine?     Great  Dian,  why, 
Why  didst  thou  hear  her  prayer?     O  that  I 
Were  rippling  round  her  dainty  fairness  now, 
Circling  about  her  waist,  and  striving  how 
To  entice  her  to  a  dive !  then  stealing  in 


BOOK  II.  ENDYMION.  109 

Between  her  luscious  lips  and  eyelids  thin. 

0  that  her  shining  hair  was  in  the  sun, 
And  I  distilling  from  it  thence  to  run 

In  amorous  rillets  down  her  shrinking  form! 

To  linger  on  her  lily  shoulders,  warm 

Between  her  kissing  breasts,  and  every  charm 

Touch  raptur'd !  —  See  how  painfully  I  flow : 

Fair  maid,  be  pitiful  to  my  great  woe. 

Stay,  stay  thy  weary  course,  and  let  me  lead, 

A  happy  wooer,  to  the  flowery  mead 

Where  all  that  beauty  snar'd  me."  —  "  Cruel  god, 

Desist!  or  my  offended  mistress'  nod 

Will  stagnate  all  thy  fountains  :  —  tease  me  not 

With  syren  words  —  Ah,  have  I  really  got 

Such  power  to  madden  thee?     And  is  it  true  — 

Away,  away,  or  I  shall  dearly  rue 

My  very  thoughts  :  in  mercy  then  away, 

Kindest  Alpheus,  for  should  I  obey 

My  own  dear  will,  'twould  be  a  deadly  bane."  — 

"O,  Oread-Queen!  would  that  thou  hadst  a  pain 

Like  this  of  mine,  then  would  I  fearless  turn 

And  be  a  criminal."  —  "Alas,  I  burn, 

1  shudder  —  gentle  river,  get  thee  hence. 
Alpheus!  thou  enchanter!  every  sense 

Of  mine  was  once  made  perfect  in  these  woods. 

Fresh  breezes,  bowery  lawns,  and  innocent  floods, 

Ripe  fruits,  and  lonely  couch,  contentment  gave  ; 

But  ever  since  I  heedlessly  did  lave 

In  thy  deceitful  stream,  a  panting  glow 

Grew  strong  within  me  :  wherefore  serve  me  so, 

And  call  it  love?     Alas,  'twas  cruelty. 

Not  once  more  did  I  close  my  happy  eyes 

Amid  the  thrush's  song.     Away!    Avaunt! 

O  'twas  a  cruel  thing."  —  "  Now  thou  dost  taunt 

So  softly,  Arethusa,  that  I  think 

If  thou  wast  playing  on  my  shady  brink, 

Thou  wouldst  bathe  once  again.     Innocent  maid! 

Stifle  thine  heart  no  more  ;  —  nor  be  afraid 

Of  angry  powers  :  there  are  deities 


1 1 0  END  YMION.  BOOK.  11. 

Will  shade  us  with  their  wings.     Those  fitful  sighs 

'Tis  almost  death  to  hear :  O  let  me  pour 

A  dewy  balm  upon  them!  —  fear  no  more, 

Sweet  Arethusa!  Dian's  self  must  feel 

Sometimes  these  very  pangs.     Dear  maiden,  steal 

Blushing  into  my  soul,  and  let  us  fly 

These  dreary  caverns  for  the  open  sky. 

I  will  delight  thee  all  my  winding  course, 

From  the  green  sea  up  to  my  hidden  source 

About  Arcadian  forests ;  and  will  shew 

The  channels  where  my  coolest  waters  flow 

Through  mossy  rocks ;  where,  'mid  exuberant  green 

I  roam  in  pleasant  darkness,  more  unseen 

Than  Saturn  in  his  exile ;  where  I  brim 

Round  flowery  islands,  and  take  thence  a  skim 

Of  mealy  sweets,  which  myriads  of  bees 

Buzz  from  their  honied  wings :  and  thou  shouldst 

please 

Thyself  to  choose  the  richest,  where  we  might 
Be  incense-pillow'd  every  summer  night. 
DofF  all  sad  fears,  thou  white  deliciousness, 
And  let  us  be  thus  comforted ;  unless 
Thou  couldst  rejoice  to  see  my  hopeless  stream 
Hurry  distracted  from  Sol's  temperate  beam, 
And  pour  to  death  along  some  hungry  sands."  — 
"  What  can  I  do,  Alpheus  ?     Dian  stands 
Severe  before  me  :  persecuting  fate ! 
Unhappy  Arethusa!  thou  wast  late 
A  huntress  free  in  "  —  At  this,  sudden  fell 
Those  two  sad  streams  adown  a  fearful  dell. 
The  Latmian  listen'd,  but  he  heard  no  more, 
Save  echo,  faint  repeating  o'er  and  o'er 
The  name  of  Arethusa.     On  the  verge 
Of  that  dark  gulph  he  wept,  and  said :  "  I  urge 
Thee,  gentle  Goddess  of  my  pilgrimage, 
By  »ur  eternal  hopes,  to  soothe,  to  assuage, 
If  thou  art  powerful,  these  lovers  pains  ; 
And  make  them  happy  in  some  happy  plains." 


BOOK  it.  END  YMION.  1 1 1 

He  turn'd  —  there  was  a  whelming  sound  —  he  stept, 
There  was  a  cooler  light ;  and  so  he  kept 
Towards  it  by  a  sandy  path,  and  lo! 
More  suddenly  than  doth  a  moment  go, 
The  visions  of  the  earth  were  gone  and  fled-^ 
He  saw  the  giant  sea  above  his  head. 


ENDYMION. 


BOOK   III. 

THERE  are  who  lord  it  o'er  their  fellow-men 

With  most  prevailing  tinsel :  who  unpen 

Their  baaing  vanities,  to  browse  away 

The  comfortable  green  and  juicy  hay 

From  human  pastures ;  or,  O  torturing  fact ! 

Who,  through  an  idiot  blink,  will  see  unpack'd 

Fire-branded  foxes  to  sear  up  and  singe 

Our  gold  and  ripe-ear' d  hopes.     With  not  one  tinge 

Of  sanctuary  splendor,  not  a  sight 

Able  to  face  an  owl's,  they  still  are  dight 

By  the  blear-eyed  nations  in  empurpled  vests, 

And  crowns,  and  turbans.     With  unladen  breasts, 

Save  of  blown  self-applause,  they  proudly  mount 

To  their  spirit's  perch,  their  being's  high  account, 

Their  tiptop  nothings,  their  dull  skies,  their  thrones  - 

Amid  the  fierce  intoxicating  tones 

Of  trumpets,  shoutings,  and  belabor'd  drums, 

And  sudden  cannon.     Ah!  how  all  this  hums, 

In  wakeful  ears,  like  uproar  past  and  gone  — 

Like  thunder  clouds  that  spake  to  Babylon, 

And  set  those  old  Chaldeans  to  their  tasks. — 

Are  then  regalities  all  gilded  masks? 

No,  there  are  throned  seats  unscalable 

But  by  a  patient  wing,  a  constant  spell, 

Or  by  ethereal  things  that,  unconfin'd, 

Can  make  a  ladder  of  the  eternal  wind, 

And  poise  about  in  cloudy  thunder-tents 


BOOK  in.  ENDYMION. 

To  watch  the  abysm-birth  of  elements. 

Aye,  'bove  the  withering  of  old-lipp'd  Fate 

A  thousand  Powers  keep  religious  state, 

In  water,  fiery  realm,  and  airy  bourne ; 

And,  silent  as  a  consecrated  urn, 

Hold  sphery  sessions  for  a  season  due. 

Yet  few  of  these  far  majesties,  ah,  few! 

Have  bared  their  operations  to  this  globe  — 

Few,  who  with  gorgeous  pageantry  enrobe 

Our  piece  of  heaven  —  whose  benevolence 

Shakes  hand  with  our  own  Ceres ;  every  sense 

Filling  with  spiritual  sweets  to  plenitude, 

As  bees  gorge  full  their  cells.     And,  by  the  feud 

'Twixt  Nothing  and  Creation,  I  here  swear, 

Eterne  Apollo!  that  thy  Sister  fair 

Is  of  all  these  the  gentlier-mightiest. 

When  thy  gold  breath  is  misting  in  the  west, 

She  unobserved  steals  unto  her  throne, 

And  there  she  sits  most  meek  and  most  alone ; 

As  if  she  had  not  pomp  subservient ; 

As  if  thine  eye,  high  Poet!  was  not  bent 

Towards  her  with  the  Muses  in  thine  heart ; 

As  if  the  ministring  stars  kept  not  apart, 

Waiting  for  silver-footed  messages. 

O  Moon!  the  oldest  shades  'mong  oldest  trees 

Feel  palpitations  when  thou  lookest  in  : 

O  Moon!  old  boughs  lisp  forth  a  holier  din 

The  while  they  feel  thine  airy  fellowship. 

Thou  dost  bless  every  where,  with  silver  lip 

Kissing  dead  things  to  life.     The  sleeping  kine, 

Couched  in  thy  brightness,  dream  of  fields  divine : 

Innumerable  mountains  rise,  and  rise, 

Ambitious  for  the  hallowing  of  thine  eyes ; 

And  yet  thy  benediction  passeth  not 

One  obscure  hiding-place,  one  little  spot 

Where  pleasure  may  be  sent :  the  nested  wren 

Has  thy  fair  face  within  its  tranquil  ken, 

And  from  beneath  a  sheltering  ivy  leaf 

Takes  glimpses  of  thee  ;  thou  art  a  relief 


H4  ENDYMION.  BOOK  m. 

To  the  poor  patient  oyster,  where  it  sleeps 
Within  its  pearly  house.  —  The  mighty  deeps, 
The  monstrous  sea  is  thine  —  the  myriad  sea ! 
O  Moon  !  far-spooming  Ocean  bows  to  thee, 
And  Tellus  feels  his  forehead's  cumbrous  load. 

Cynthia  !  where  art  thou  now  ?    What  far  abode 
Of  green  or  silvery  bower  doth  enshrine 
Such  utmost  beauty?    Alas,  thou  dost  pine 
For  one  as  sorrowful :  thy  cheek  is  pale 
For  one  whose  cheek  is  pale :  thou  dost  bewail 
His  tears,  who  weeps  for  thee.    Where  dost  thou  sigh  ? 
Ah!  surely  that  light  peeps  from  Vesper's  eye, 
Or  what  a  thing  is  love!     'Tis  She,  but  lo! 
How  chang'd,  how  full  of  ache,  how  gone  in  woe! 
She  dies  at  the  thinnest  cloud ;  her  loveliness 
Is  wan  on  Neptune's  blue :  yet  there's  a  stress 
Of  love-spangles,  just  off  yon  cape  of  trees, 
Dancing  upon  the  waves,  as  if  to  please 
The  curly  foam  with  amorous  influence. 
O,  not  so  idle  :  for  down-glancing  thence 
She  fathoms  eddies,  and  runs  wild  about 
O'erwhelming  water-courses  ;  scaring  out 
The  thorny  sharks  from  hiding-holes,  and  fright'ning 
Their  savage  eyes  with  unaccustomed  lightning. 
Where  will  the  splendor  be  content  to  reach  ? 
O  love !  how  potent  hast  thou  been  to  teach 
Strange  journeyings !     Wherever  beauty  dwells, 
In  gulf  or  aerie,  mountains  or  deep  dells, 
In  light,  in  gloom,  in  star  or  blazing  sun, 
Thou  pointest  out  the  way,  and  straight  'tis  won. 
Amid  his  toil  thou  gav'st  Leander  breath  ; 
Thou  leddest  Orpheus  through  the  gleams  of  death ; 
Thou  madest  Pluto  bear  thin  element ; 
And  now,  O  winged  Chieftain!  thou  hast  sent 
A  moon-beam  to  the  deep,  deep  water-world, 
To  find  Endymion. 

On  gold  sand  impearl'd 
With  lily  shells,  and  pebbles  milky  white, 


BOOK  in.  END  YMION.  \  1 5 

Poor  Cynthia  greeted  him,  and  sooth'd  her  light 
Against  his  pallid  face :  he  felt  the  charm 
To  breathlessness,  and  suddenly  a  warm 
Of  his  heart's  blood  :  'twas  very  sweet ;  he  stay'd 
His  wandering  steps,  and  half-entranced  laid 
His  head  upon  a  tuft  of  straggling  weeds, 
To  taste  the  gentle  moon,  and  freshening  beads, 
Lashed  from  the  crystal  roof  by  fishes'  tails. 
And  so  he  kept,  until  the  rosy  veils 
Mantling  the  east,  by  Aurora's  peering  hand 
Were  lifted  from  the  water's  breast,  and  fann'd 
Into  sweet  air;  and  sober'd  morning  came 
Meekly  through  billows  :  —  when  like  taper-flame 
Left  sudden  by  a  dallying  breath  of  air, 
He  rose  in  silence,  and  once  more  'gan  fare 
Along  his  fated  way. 

Far  had  he  roam'd, 

With  nothing  save  the  hollow  vast,  that  foam'd 
Above,  around,  and  at  his  feet ;  save  things 
More  dead  than  Morpheus'  imaginings : 
Old  rusted  anchors,  helmets,  breast-plates  large 
Of  gone  sea-warriors  ;  brazen  beaks  and  targe  ; 
Rudders  that  for  a  hundred  years  had  lost 
The  sway  of  human  hand ;  gold  vase  emboss'd 
With  long-forgotten  story,  and  wherein 
No  reveller  had  ever  dipp'd  a  chin 
But  those  of  Saturn's  vintage  ;  mouldering  scrolls 
Writ  in  the  tongue  of  heaven,  by  those  souls 
Who  first  were  on  the  earth ;  and  sculptures  rude 
In  ponderous  stone,  developing  the  mood 
Of  ancient  Nox  ;  —  then  skeletons  of  man, 
Of  beast,  behemoth,  and  leviathan, 
And  elephant,  and  eagle,  and  huge  jaw 
Of  nameless  monster.     A  cold  leaden  awe 
These  secrets  struck  into  him ;  and  unless 
Dian  had  chaced  away  that  heaviness, 
He  might  have  died :  but  now,  with  cheered  feel, 
He  onward  kept ;  wooing  these  thoughts  to  steal 
About  the  labyrinth  in  his  soul  of  love. 


1 1 6  END  YMION.  BOOK  lit 

"What  is  there  in  thee,  Moon!  that  thou  shouldst 

move 

My  heart  so  potently  ?     When  yet  a  child 
I  oft  have  dried  my  tears  when  thou  hast  smil'd. 
Thou  seem'dst  my  sister :  hand  in  hand  we  went 
From  eve  to  morn  across  the  firmament. 
No  apples  would  I  gather  from  the  tree, 
Till  thou  hadst  cool'd  their  cheeks  deliciously  : 
No  tumbling  water  ever  spake  romance, 
But  when  my  eyes  with  thine  thereon  could  dance : 
No  woods  were  green  enough,  no  bower  divine, 
Until  thou  liftedst  up  thine  eyelids  fine  : 
In  sowing  time  ne'er  would  I  dibble  take, 
Or  drop  a  seed,  till  thou  wast  wide  awake ; 
And,  in  the  summer  tide  of  blossoming, 
No  one  but  thee  hath  heard  me  blithly  sing 
And  mesh  my  dewy  flowers  all  the  night. 
No  melody  was  like  a  passing  spright 
If  it  went  not  to  solemnize  thy  reign. 
Yes,  in  my  boyhood,  every  joy  and  pain 
By  thee  were  fashioned  to  the  self-same  end ; 
And  as  I  grew  in  years,  still  didst  thou  blend 
With  all  my  ardors  :  thou  wast  the  deep  glen  ; 
Thou  wast  the  mountain-top  —  the  sage's  pen  — 
The  poet's  harp  —  the  voice  of  friends  —  the  sun ; 
Thou  wast  the  river  —  thou  wast  glory  won ; 
Thou  wast  my  clarion's  blast  —  thou  wast  my  steed  — 
My  goblet  full  of  wine  —  my  topmost  deed :  — 
Thou  wast  the  charm  of  women,  lovely  Moon ! 
O  what  a  wild  and  harmonized  tune 
My  spirit  struck  from  all  the  beautiful ! 
On  some  bright  essence  could  I  lean,  and  lull 
Myself  to  immortality :   I  prest 
Nature's  soft  pillow  in  a  wakeful  rest. 
But,  gentle  Orb !  there  came  a  nearer  bliss  — 
My  strange  love  came  —  Felicity's  abyss ! 
She  came,  and  thou  didst  fade,  and  fade  away— - 
Yet  not  entirely ;  no,  thy  starry  sway 
Has  been  an  under-passion  to  this  hour. 


BOOK  in.  END  YMION.  117 

Now  I  begin  to  feel  thine  orby  power 

Is  coming  fresh  upon  me  :  O  be  kind, 

Keep  back  thine  influence,  and  do  not  blind 

My  sovereign  vision.  —  Dearest  love,  forgive 

That  I  can  think  away  from  thee  and  live!  — 

Pardon  me,  airy  planet,  that  I  prize 

One  thought  beyond  thine  argent  luxuries! 

How  far  beyond!  "     At  this  a  surprised  start 

Frosted  the  springing  verdure  of  his  heart; 

For  as  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  swear 

How  his  own  goddess  was  past  all  things  fair, 

He  saw  far  in  the  concave  green  of  the  sea 

An  old  man  sitting  calm  and  peacefully. 

Upon  a  weeded  rock  this  old  man  sat, 

And  his  white  hair  was  awful,  and  a  mat 

Of  weeds  were  cold  beneath  his  cold  thin  feet ; 

And,  ample  as  the  largest  winding-sheet, 

A  cloak  of  blue  wrapp'd  up  his  aged  bones, 

O'erwrought  with  symbols  by  the  deepest  groans 

Of  ambitious  magic :  every  ocean-form 

Was  woven  in  with  black  distinctness ;  storm, 

And  calm,  and  whispering,  and  hideous  roar 

Were  emblem'd  in  the  woof;  with  every  shape 

That  skims,  or  dives,  or  sleeps,  'twixt  cape  and  cape 

The  gulphing  whale  was  like  a  dot  in  the  spell, 

Yet  look  upon  it,  and  'twould  size  and  swell 

To  its  huge  self;  and  the  minutest  fish 

Would  pass  the  very  hardest  gazer's  wish, 

And  show  his  little  eye's  anatomy. 

Then  there  was  pictur'd  the  regality 

Of  Neptune  ;  and  the  sea  nymphs  round  his  state, 

In  beauteous  vassalage,  look  up  and  wait. 

Beside  this  old  man  lay  a  pearly  wand, 

And  in  his  lap  a  book,  the  which  he  conn'd 

So  stedfastly,  that  the  new  denizen 

Had  time  to  keep  him  in  amazed  ken, 

To  mark  these  shadowings,  and  stand  in  awe. 

The  old  man  rais'd  his  hoary  head  and  saw 
The  wilder'd  stranger  —  seeming  not  to  see, 


Il8  ENDYMION.  BOOK  m. 

His  features  were  so  lifeless.     Suddenly 

He  woke  as  from  a  trance  ;  his  snow-white  brows 

Went  arching  up,  and  like  two  magic  ploughs 

Furrow'd  deep  wrinkles  in  his  forehead  large, 

Which  kept  as  fixedly  as  rocky  marge, 

Till  round  his  withered  lips  had  gone  a  smile. 

Then  up  he  rose,  like  one  whose  tedious  toil 

Had  watch 'd  for  years  in  forlorn  hermitage, 

Who  had  not  from  mid-life  to  utmost  age 

Eas'd  in  one  accent  his  o'er-burden'd  soul, 

Even  to  the  trees.     He  rose :  he  grasp'd  his  stole, 

With  convulsed  clenches  waving  it  abroad. 

And  in  a  voice  of  solemn  joy,  that  aw'd 

Echo  into  oblivion,  he  said :  — 

"  Thou  art  the  man !     Now  shall  I  lay  my  head 
In  peace  upon  my  watery  pillow :  now 
Sleep  will  come  smoothly  to  my  weary  brow. 
O  Jove  !  I  shall  be  young  again,  be  young  ! 

0  shell-borne  Neptune,  I  am  pierc'd  and  stung 
With  new-born  life!     What  shall  I  do?     Where  go, 
When  I  have  cast  this  serpent-skin  of  woe  ?  — 

I'll  swim  to  the  syrens,  and  one  moment  listen 

Their  melodies,  and  see  their  long  hair  glisten  ; 

Anon  upon  that  giant's  arm  I'll  be, 

That  writhes  about  the  roots  of  Sicily  : 

To  northern  seas  I'll  in  a  twinkling  sail, 

And  mount  upon  the  snortings  of  a  whale 

To  some  black  cloud ;  thence  down  I'll  madly  sweep 

On  forked  lightning,  to  the  deepest  deep, 

Where  through  some  sucking  pool  I  will  be  hurl'd 

With  rapture  to  the  other  side  of  the  world! 

O,  I  am  full  of  gladness!     Sisters  three, 

1  bow  full  hearted  to  your  old  decree ! 

Yes,  every  god  be  thank'd,  and  power  benign, 
For  I  no  more  shall  wither,  droop,  and  pine. 
Thou  art  the  man ! "     Endymion  started  back 
Dismay'd ;  and,  like  a  wretch  from  whom  the  rack 
Tortures  hot  breath,  and  speech  of  agony, 


BOOK  in.  ENDYMION. 


119 


Mutter'd  :  "  What  lonely  death  am  I  to  die 

In  this  cold  region?     Will  he  let  me  freeze, 

And  float  my  brittle  limbs  o'er  polar  seas? 

Or  will  he  touch  me  with  his  searing  hand, 

And  leave  a  black  memorial  on  the  sand  ? 

Or  tear  me  piece-meal  with  a  bony  saw, 

And  keep  me  as  a  chosen  food  to  draw 

His  magian  fish  through  hated  fire  and  flame  ? 

O  misery  of  hell !  resistless,  tame, 

Am  I  to  be  burnt  up  ?     No,  I  will  shout, 

Until  the  gods  through  heaven's  blue  look  out !  — 

0  Tartarus !  but  some  few  days  agone 
Her  soft  arms  were  entwining  me,  and  on 

Her  voice  I  hung  like  fruit  among  green  leaves : 

Her  lips  were  all  my  own,  and  —  ah,  ripe  sheaves 

Of  happiness!  ye  on  the  stubble  droop, 

But  never  may  be  garner'd.     I  must  stoop 

My  head,  and  kiss  death's  foot.      Love!   love,  fare- 

wel! 

Is  there  no  hope  from  thee?     This  horrid  spell 
Would  melt  at  thy  sweet  breath.  —  By  Dian's  hind 
Feeding  from  her  white  fingers,  on  the  wind 

1  see  thy  streaming  hair!  and  now,  by  Pan, 
I  care  not  for  this  old  mysterious  man! " 

He  spake,  and  walking  to  that  aged  form, 
Look'd  high  defiance.     Lo  !  his  heart  'gan  warm 
With  pity,  for  the  gray-hair'd  creature  wept. 
Had  he  then  wrong'd  a  heart  where  sorrow  kept? 
Had  he,  though  blindl)  contumelious,  brought 
Rheum  to  kind  eyes,  a  sting  to  human  thought, 
Convulsion  to  a  mouth  of  many  years? 
He  had  in  truth ;  and  he  was  ripe  for  tears. 
The  penitent  shower  fell,  as  down  he  knelt 
Before  that  care-worn  sage,  who  trembling  felt 
About  his  large  dark  locks,  and  faultering  spake : 

"  Arise,  good  youth,  for  sacred  Phoebus'  sake-' 
I  know  thine  inmost  bosom,  and  I  feel 


1 20  END  YAflO.V.  BOOK  in. 

A  very  brother's  yearning  for  thee  steal 

Into  mine  own  :  for  why?  thou  openest 

The  prison  gates  that  have  so  long  opprest 

My  weary  watching.     Though  thou  know'st  it  not, 

Thou  art  commissioned  to  this  fated  spot 

For  great  enfranchisement.     O  weep  no  more  ; 

I  am  a  friend  to  love,  to  loves  of  yore  : 

Aye,  hadst  thou  never  lov'd  an  unknown  power 

I  had  been  grieving  at  this  joyous  hour 

But  even  now  most  miserable  old, 

I  saw  thee,  and  my  blood  no  longer  cold 

Gave  mighty  pulses  :  in  this  tottering  case 

Grew  a  new  heart,  which  at  this  moment  plays 

As  dancingly  as  thine.     Be  not  afraid, 

For  thou  shalt  hear  this  secret  all  displayed, 

Now  as  we  speed  towards  our  joyous  task.'1 

So  saying,  this  young  soul  in  age's  mask 
Went  forward  with  the  Carian  side  by  side : 
Resuming  quickly  thus  ;  while  ocean's  tide 
Hung  swollen  at  their  backs,  and  jewel'd  sands 
Took  silently  their  foot-prints. 

"My  soul  stands 

Now  past  the  midway  from  mortality, 
And  so  I  can  prepare  without  a  sigh 
To  tell  thee  briefly  all  my  joy  and  pain. 
1  was  a  fisher  once,  upon  this  main, 
And  my  boat  danc'd  in  every  creek  and  bay  : 
Rough  billows  were  my  home  by  night  and  day,  — 
The  sea-gulls  not  more  constant ;  for  I  had 
No  housing  from  the  storm  and  tempests  mad, 
But  hollow  rocks,  —  and  they  were  palaces 
Of  silent  happiness,  of  slumberous  ease  : 
Long  years  of  misery  have  told  me  so. 
Aye,  thus  it  was  one  thousand  years  ago. 
One  thousand  years  !  —  Is  it  then  possible 
To  look  so  plainly  through  them?  to  dispel 
A  thousand  years  with  backward  glance  sublime  ? 


BOOK  in.  ENDYMION.  121 

To  breathe  away  as  'twere  all  scummy  slime 
From  off  a  crystal  pool,  to  see  its  deep, 
And  one's  own  image  from  the  bottom  peep? 
Yes  :  now  I  am  no  longer  wretched  thrall, 
My  long  captivity  and  meanings  all 
Are  but  a  slime,  a  thin-pervading  scum, 
The  which  I  breathe  away,  and  thronging  come 
Like  things  of  yesterday  my  youthful  pleasures. 

•  "  I  touch'd  no  lute,  I  sang  not,  trod  no  measures : 

I  was  a  lonely  youth  on  desert  snores. 

My  sports  were  lonely,  'mid  continuous  roars, 

And  craggy  isles,  and  sea-mew's  plaintive  cry 

Plaining  discrepant  between  sea  and  sky. 

Dolphins  were  still  my  playmates ;  shapes  unseen 

Would  let  me  feel  their  scales  of  gold  and  green, 

Nor  be  my  desolation  ;  and,  full  oft, 

When  a  dread  waterspout  had  rear'd  aloft 

Its  hungry  hugeness,  seeming  ready  ripe 

To  burst  with  hoarsest  thunderings,  and  wipe 

My  life  away  like  a  vast  sponge  of  fate, 

Some  friendly  monster,  pitying  my  sad  state, 

Has  dived  to  its  foundations,  gulph'd  it  down. 

And  left  me  tossing  safely.     But  the  crown 

Of  all  my  life  was  utmost  quietude : 

More  did  I  love  to  lie  in  cavern  rude. 

Keeping  in  wait  whole  days  for  Neptune's  voice, 

And  if  it  came  at  last,  hark,  and  rejoice! 

There  blush'd  no  summer  eve  but  1  would  steer 

My  skiff  along  green  shelving  coasts,  to  hear 

The  shepherd's  pipe  come  clear  from  aery  steep, 

Mingled  with  ceaseless  bleatings  of  his  sheep: 

And  never  was  a  day  of  summer  shine, 

But  I  beheld  its  birth  upon  the  brine : 

For  I  would  watch  all  night  to  see  unfold 

Heaven's  gates,  and  /Ethon  snort  his  morning  gold 

Wide  o'er  the  swelling  streams  :  and  constantly 

At  brim  of  day-tide,  on  some  grassy  lea, 

My  nets  would  be  spread  out,  and  I  at  rest. 


122  END  YM ION.  BOOK  in. 

The  poor  folk  of  the  sea-country  I  blest 
With  daily  boon  of  fish  most  delicate : 
They  knew  not  whence  this  bounty,  and  elate 
Would  strew  sweet  flowers  on  a  sterile  beach. 

"Why  was  I  not  contented?    Wherefore  reach 
At  things  which,  but  for  thee,  O  Latmian! 
Had  been  my  dreary  death ?     Fool!     I  began 
To  feel  distemper'd  longings :  to  desire 
The  utmost  privilege  that  ocean's  sire 
Could  grant  in  benediction  :  to  be  free 
Of  all  his  kingdom.     Long  in  misery 
I  wasted,  ere  in  one  extremest  fit 
I  plung'd  for  life  or  death.     To  interknit 
One's  senses  with  so  dense  a  breathing  stuff 
Might  seem  a  work  of  pain ;  so  not  enough 
Can  I  admire  how  crystal-smooth  it  felt, 
And  buoyant  round  my  limbs.     At  first  I  dwelt 
Whole  days  and  days  in  sheer  astonishment ; 
Forgetful  utterly  of  self-intent ; 
Moving  but  with  the  mighty  ebb  and  flow. 
Then,  like  a  new-fledg'd  bird  that  first  doth  shew 
His  spreaded  feathers  to  the  morrow  chill, 
I  tried  in  fear  the  pinions  of  my  will. 
Twas  freedom !  and  at  once  I  visited 
The  ceaseless  wonders  of  this  ocean-bed. 
No  need  to  tell  thee  of  them,  for  I  see 
That  thou  hast  been  a  witness  —  it  must  be 
For  these  I  know  thou  canst  not  feel  a  drouth, 
By  the  melancholy  corners  of  that  mouth. 
So  I  will  in  my  story  straightway  pass 
To  more  immediate  matter.     Woe,  alas! 
That  love  should  be  my  bane!     Ah,  Scylla  fair! 
Why  did  poor  Glaucus  ever — ever  dare 
To  sue  thee  to  his  heart?     Kind  stranger-youth! 
I  lov'd  her  to  the  very  white  of  truth, 
And  she  would  not  conceive  it.     Timid  thing! 
She  fled  me  swift  as  sea-bird  on  the  wing, 
Round  every  isle,  and  point,  and  promontory, 


BOOK  in.  END  YMION.  1 23 

From  where  large  Hercules  wound  up  his  story 

Far  as  Egyptian  Nile.     My  passion  grew 

The  more,  the  more  I  saw  her  dainty  hue 

Gleam  delicately  through  the  azure  clear : 

Until  'twas  too  fierce  agony  to  bear ; 

And  in  that  agony,  across  my  grief 

It  flash'd,  that  Circe  might  find  some  relief — 

Cruel  enchantress!     So  above  the  water 

I  rear'd  my  head,  and  look'd  For  Phoebus'  daughter. 

/Eaea's  isle  was  wondering  at  the  moon  :  — 

It  seem'd  to  whirl  around  me,  and  a  swoon 

Left  me  dead-drifting  to  that  fatal  power. 

"  When  I  awoke,  'twas  in  a  twilight  bower ; 
Just  when  the  light  of  morn,  with  hum  of  bees, 
Stole  through  its  verdurous  matting  of  fresh  trees. 
How  sweet,  and  sweeter!  for  I  heard  a  lyre, 
And  over  it  a  sighing  voice  expire. 
It  ceased  —  I  caught  light  footsteps  ;  and  anon 
The  fairest  face  that  morn  e'er  look'd  upon 
Push'd  through  a  screen  of  roses.     Starry  Jove! 
With  tears,  and  smiles,  and  honey-words  she  wove 
A  net  whose  thraldom  was  more  bliss  than  all 
The  range  of  flower'd  Elysium.     Thus  did  fall 
The  dew  of  her  rich  speech  :  i  Ah !     Art  awake  ? 

0  let  me  hear  thee  speak,  for  Cupid's  sake! 

1  am  so  oppress'd  with  joy!     Why,  I  have  shed 
An  urn  of  tears,  as  though  thou  wert  cold  dead ; 
And  now  I  find  thee  living,  I  will  pour 

From  these  devoted  eyes  their  silver  store, 

Until  exhausted  of  the  latest  drop, 

So  it  will  pleasure  thee,  and  force  thee  stop 

Here,  that  I  too  may  live  :  but  if  beyond 

Such  cool  and  sorrowful  offerings,  thou  art  fond 

Of  soothing  warmth,  of  dalliance  supreme ; 

If  thou  art  ripe  to  taste  a  long  love  dream ; 

If  smiles,  if  dimples,  tongues  for  ardor  mute, 

Hang  in  thy  vision  like  a  tempting  fruit, 

0  let  me  pluck  it  for  thee.'    Thus  she  link'd 


1 24  END  YMTON.  BOOK  in 

Her  charming  syllables,  till  indistinct 
Their  music  came  to  my  o'er-sweeten'd  soul; 
And  then  she  hover'd  over  me,  and  stole 
So  near,  that  if  no  nearer  it  had  been 
This  furrow'd  visage  thou  hadst  never  seen. 

"  Young  man  of  Latmos!  thus  particular 
Am  I,  that  thou  may'st  plainly  see  how  far 
This  fierce  temptation  went :  and  thou  may'st  not 
Exclaim,  How  then,  was  Scylla  quite,  forgot  ? 

"  Who  could  resist  ?     Who  in  this  universe  ? 
She  did  so  breathe  ambrosia ;  so  immerse 
My  fine  existence  in  a  golden  clime. 
She  took  me  like  a  child  of  suckling  time. 
And  cradled  me  in  roses.     Thus  condemn'd, 
The  current  of  my  former  life  was  stemmed, 
And  to  this  arbitrary  queen  of  sense 
I  bow'd  a  tranced  vassal :  nor  would  thence 
Have  mov'd,  even  though  Amphion's  harp  had  woo'd 
Me  back  to  Scylla  o'er  the  billows  rude. 
For  as  Apollo  each  eve  doth  devise 
A  new  appareling  for  western  skies  : 
So  every  eve,  nay  every  spendthrift  hour 
Shed  balmy  consciousness  within  that  bower. 
And  I  was  free  of  haunts  umbrageous ; 
Could  wander  in  the  mazy  forest-house 
Of  squirrels,  foxes  shy,  and  antler'd  deer. 
And  birds  from  coverts  innermost  and  drear 
Warbling  for  very  joy  mellifluous  sorrow  — 
To  me  new  born  delights! 

"  Now  let  me  borrow, 
For  moments  few,  a  temperament  as  stern 
As  Pluto's  sceptre,  that  my  words  not  burn 
These  uttering  lips,  while  I  in  calm  speech  tell 
How  specious  heaven  was  changed  to  real  hell. 

"  One  morn  she  left  me  sleeping :  half  awake 
I  sought  for  her  smooth  arms  and  lips,  to  slake 


BOOK  in.  ENDYMION.  125 

My  greedy  thirst  with  nectarous  camel-draughts ; 

But  she  was  gone.     Whereat  the  barbed  shafts 

Of  disappointment  stuck  in  me  so  sore, 

That  out  I  ran  and  search'd  the  forest  o'er. 

Wandering  about  in  pine  and  cedar  gloom 

Damp  awe  assail'd  me ;  for  there  'gan  to  boom 

A  sound  of  moan,  an  agony  of  sound, 

Sepulchral  from  the  distance  all  around. 

Then  came  a  conquering  earth-thunder,  and  rumbled 

That  fierce  complain  to  silence :  while  I  stumbled 

Down  a  precipitous  path,  as  if  impell'd. 

I  came  to  a  dark  valley.  —  Groanings  swell'd 

Poisonous  about  my  ears,  and  louder  grew, 

The  nearer  I  approach'd  a  flame's  gaunt  blue, 

That  glar'd  before  me  through  a  thorny  brake. 

This  fire,  like  the  eye  of  gordian  snake, 

Bewitch'd  me  towards ;  and  I  soon  was  near 

A  sight  too  fearful  for  the  feel  of  fear : 

In  thicket  hid  I  curs'-d  the  haggard  scene  — 

The  banquet  of  my  arms,  my  arbor  queen, 

Seated  upon  an  uptorn  forest  root ; 

And  all  around  her  shapes,  wizard  and  brute, 

Laughing,  and  wailing,  groveling,  serpenting, 

Shewing  tooth,  tusk,  and  venom-bag,  and  sting! 

O  such  deformities!     Old  Charon's  self, 

Should  he  give  up  awhile  his  penny  pelf, 

And  take  a  dream  'mong  rushes  Stygian, 

It  could  not  be  so  phantasied.     Fierce,  wan, 

And  tyrannizing  was  the  lady's  look, 

As  over  them  a  gnarled  staff  she  shook. 

Oft-times  upon  the  sudden  she  laugh'd  out, 

And  from  a  basket  emptied  to  the  rout 

Clusters  of  grapes,  the  which  they  raven'd  quick 

And  roar'd  for  more  ;  with  many  a  hungry  lick 

About  their  shaggy  jaws.     Avenging,  slow, 

Anon  she  took  a  branch  of  mistletoe, 

And  emptied  on't  a  black  dull-gurgling  phial : 

Groan'd  one  and  all,  as  if  some  piercing  trial 

Was  sharpening  for  their  pitiable  bones. 


126  ENDYMION.  BOOK  m. 

She  lifted  up  the  charm  :  appealing  groans 

From  their  poor  breasts  went  sueing  to  her  ear 

In  vain;  remorseless  as  an  infant's  bier 

She  whisk'd  against  their  eyes  the  sooty  oil. 

Whereat  was  heard  a  noise  of  painful  toil, 

Increasing  gradual  to  a  tempest  rage, 

Shrieks,  yells,  and  groans  of  torture-pilgrimage ; 

Until  their  grieved  bodies  'gan  to  bloat 

And  puff  from  the  tail's  end  to  stifled  throat : 

Then  was  appalling  silence  :  then  a  sight 

More  wildering  than  all  that  hoarse  affright : 

For  the  whole  herd,  as  by  a  whirlwind  writhen. 

Went  through  the  dismal  air  like  one  huge  Python 

Antagonizing  Boreas,  —  and  so  vanish'd. 

Yet  there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind  :  she  banish'd 

These  phantoms  with  a  nod.     Lo!  from  the  dark 

Came  waggish  fauns,  and  nymphs,  and  satyrs  stark, 

With  dancing  and  loud  revelry,  —  and  went 

Swifter  than  centaurs  after  rapine  bent.  — 

Sighing  an  elephant  appear'd  and  bow'd 

Before  the  fierce  witch,  speaking  thus  aloud 

In  human  accent :  '  Potent  goddess !  chief 

Of  pains  resistless!  make  my  being  brief, 

Or  let  me  from  this  heavy  prison  fly : 

Or  give  me  to  the  air,  or 'let  me  die! 

I  sue  not  for  my  happy  crown  again ; 

I  sue  not  for  my  phalanx  on  the  plain ; 

I  sue  not  for  my  lone,  my  widow'd  wife ; 

I  sue  not  for  my  ruddy  drops  of  life, 

My  children  fair,  my  lovely  girls  and  boys ! 

I  will  forget  them ;  I  will  pass  these  joys  ; 

Ask  nought  so  heavenward,  so  too  —  too  high : 

Only  I  pray,  as  fairest  boon,  to  die, 

Or  be  deliver'd  from  this  cumbrous  flesh, 

From  this  gross,  detestable,  filthy  mesh, 

And  merely  given  to  the  cold  bleak  air. 

Have  mercy,  Goddess  !    Circe,  feel  my  prayer!' 

"  That  curst  magician's  name  fell  icy  numb 
Upon  my  wild  conjecturing :  truth  had  come 


BOOK  in.  END  YMION.  \  2  7 

Naked  and  sabre-like  against  my  heart. 

I  saw  a  fury  whetting  a  death-dart ; 

And  my  slain  spirit,  overwrought  with  fright, 

Fainted  away  in  that  dark  lair  of  night. 

Think,  my  deliverer,  how  desolate 

My  waking  must  have  been!  disgust,  and  hate, 

And  terrors  manifold  divided  me 

A  spoil  amongst  them.     I  prepar'd  to  flee 

Into  the  dungeon  core  of  that  wild  wood  : 

I  fled  three  days  —  when  lo !  before  me  stood 

Glaring  the  angry  witch.     O  Dis,  even  now, 

A  clammy  dew  is  beading  on  my  brow, 

At  mere  remembering  her  pale  laugh,  and  curst 

'  Ha!  ha!  Sir  Dainty!  there  must  be  a  nurse 

Made  of  rose  leaves  and  thistledown,  express, 

To  cradle  thee  my  sweet,  and  lull  thee :  yes, 

I  am  too  flinty-hard  for  thy  nice  touch : 

My  tenderest  squeeze  is  but  a  giant's  clutch. 

So,  fairy-thing,  it  shall  have  lullabies 

Unheard  of  yet ;  and  it  shall  still  its  cries 

Upon  some  breast  more  lily-feminine. 

Oh,  no  —  it  shall  not  pine,  and  pine,  and  pine 

More  than  one  pretty,  trifling  thousand  years ; 

And  then  'twere  pity,  but  fate's  gentle  shears 

Cut  short  its  immortality.     Sea-flirt! 

Young  dove  of  the  waters!  truly  I'll  not  hurt 

One  hair  of  thine  :  see  how  I  weep  and  sigh, 

That  our  heart-broken  parting  is  so  nigh. 

And  must  we  part  ?     Ah,  yes,  it  must  be  so. 

Yet  ere  thou  leavest  me  in  utter  woe, 

Let  me  sob  over  thee  my  last  adieus, 

And  speak  a  blessing:  Mark  me!  thou  hast  thews 

Immortal,  for  thou  art  of  heavenly  race : 

But  such  a  love  is  mine,  that  here  I  chase 

Eternally  away  from  thee  all  bloom 

Of  youth,  and  destine  thee  towards  a  tomb. 

Hence  shalt  thou  quickly  to  the  watery  vast ; 

And  there,  ere  many  days  be  overpast, 

Disabled  age  shall  seize  thee  ;  and  even  then 


128  ENDYMION.  BOOK  m. 

Thou  shalt  not  go  the  way  of  aged  men  ; 

But  live  and  wither,  cripple  and  still  breathe 

Ten  hundred  years :  which  gone,  I  then  bequeath 

Thy  fragile  bones  to  unknown  burial. 

Adieu,  sweet  love,  adieu ! '  —  As  shot  stars  fall, 

She  fled  ere  I  could  groan  for  mercy.     Stung 

And  poisoned  was  my  spirit :  despair  sung 

A  war-song  of  defiance  'gainst  all  hell. 

A  hand  was  at  my  shoulder  to  compel 

My  sullen  steps  ;  another  "fore  my  eyes 

Moved  on  with  pointed  finger.     In  this  guise 

Enforced,  at  the  last  by  ocean's  foam 

I  found  me ;  by  my  fresh,  my  native  home. 

Its  tempering  coolness,  to  my  life  akin, 

Came  salutary  as  I  waded  in  ; 

And,  with  a  blind  voluptuous  rage,  I  gave 

Battle  to  the  swollen  billow-ridge,  and  drave 

Large  froth  before  me,  while  there  yet  remain'd 

Hale  strength,  nor  from  my  bones  all  marrow  drain'd. 

"  Young  lover,  I  must  weep  —  such  hellish  spite 
With  dry  cheek  who  can  tell  ?     While  thus  my  might 
Proving  upon  this  element,  dismayed, 
Upon  a  dead  thing's  face  my  hand  I  laid ; 
I  look'd  —  'twas  Scylla!     Cursed,  cursed  Circe! 

0  vulture-witch,  hast  never  heard  of  mercy? 
Could  not  thy  harshest  vengeance  be  content, 
But  thou  must  nip  this  tender  innocent 
Because  I  lov'd  her  ?  —  Cold,  O  cold  indeed 
Were  her  fair  limbs,  and  like  a  common  weed 
The  sea-swell  took  her  hair.     Dead  as  she  was 

1  clung  about  her  waist,  nor  ceas'd  to  pass 
Fleet  as  an  arrow  through  unfathom'd  brine, 
Until  there  shone  a  fabric  crystalline, 

Ribb'd  and  inlaid  with  coral,  pebble,  and  pearl. 
Headlong  I  darted  ;  at  one  eager  swirl 
Gain'd  its  bright  portal,  enter'd,  and  behold! 
"T\vas  vast,  and  desolate,  and  icy-cold  : 
And  all  around —  But  wherefore  this  to  thee 


BOOK  in.  ENDYMION.  129 

Who  in  few  minutes  more  thyself  shalt  see? — 
I  left  poor  Scylla  in  a  niche  and  fled. 
My  fever'd  parchings  up,  my  scathing  dread 
Met  palsy  half  way :  soon  these  limbs  became 
Gaunt,  wither'd,  sapless,  feeble,  cramp'd,  and  lame. 

"  Now  let  me  pass  a  cruel,  cruel  space, 
Without  one  hope,  without  one  faintest  trace 
Of  mitigation,  or  redeeming  bubble 
Of  color'd  phantasy ;  for  I  fear  'twould  trouble 
Thy  brain  to  loss  of  reason  :  and  next  tell 
How  a  restoring  chance  came  down  to  quell 
One  half  of  the  witch  in  me. 

"  On  a  day, 

Sitting  upon  a  rock  above  the  spray, 
I  saw  grow  up  from  the  horizon's  brink 
A  gallant  vessel :  soon  she  seem'd  to  sink 
Away  from  me  again,  as  though  her  course 
Had  been  resum'd  in  spite  of  hindering  force  — 
So  vanish'd  :  and  not  long,  before  arose 
Dark  clouds,  and  muttering  of  winds  morose. 
Old  Eolus  would  stifle  his  mad  spleen. 
But  could  not :  therefore  all  the  billows  green 
Toss'd  up  the  silver  spume  against  the  clouds. 
The  tempest  came :  I  saw  that  vessel's  shrouds 
In  perilous  bustle;  while  upon  the  deck 
Stood  trembling  creatures.     I  beheld  the  wreck  : 
The  final  gulphing ;  the  poor  struggling  souls  : 
I  heard  their  cries  amid  loud  thunder-rolls. 
O  they  had  all  been  sav'd  but  crazed  eld 
Annull'd  my  vigorous  cravings :  and  thus  quell'd 
And  curb'd,  think  on't,  O  Latmian!  did  I  sit 
Writhing  with  pity,  and  a  cursing  fit 
Against  that  hell-born  Circe.     The  crew  had  gone, 
By  one  and  one,  to  pale  oblivion ; 
And  I  was  gazing  on  the  surges  prone, 
With  many  a  scalding  tear  and  many  a  groan, 
When  at  my  feet  emerg'd  an  old  man's  hand, 


130  ENDYMION.  BOOK  lit 

Grasping  this  scroll,  and  this  same  slender  wand 

I    knelt   with    pain  —  reached    out    my   hand  —  had 

grasp'd 
These  treasures  —  touch'd  the  knuckles  —  they  un- 

clasp'd  — 

I  caught  a  finger :  but  the  downward  weight 
O'erpowered  me  —  it  sank.     Then  'gan  abate 
The  storm,  and  through  chill  aguish  gloom  outburst 
The  comfortable  sun.     I  was  athirst 
To  search  the  book,  and  in  the  warming  air 
Parted  its  dripping  leaves  with  eager  care. 
Strange  matters  did  it  treat  of,  and  drew  on 
My  soul  page  after  page,  till  well-nigh  won 
Into  forgetfulness  ;  when,  stupefied, 
I  read  these  words,  and  read  again,  and  tried 
My  eyes  against  the  heavens,  and  read  again. 
O  what  a  load  of  misery  and  pain 
Each  Atlas-line  bore  off!  —  a  shine  of  hope 
Came  gold  around  me,  cheering  me  to  cope 
Strenuous  with  hellish  tyranny.     Attend! 
For  thou  hast  brought  their  promise  to  an  end. 

"/«  the  wide  sea  there  lives  a  forlorn  wretch, 
Doonfd  with  enfeebled  carcase  to  outstretch 
His  loath1  d  existence  through  ten  centuries, 
And  then  to  die  alone.     Who  can  devise 
A  total  opposition?    No  one.     So 
One  million  times  ocean  must  ebb  and  flow, 
And  he  oppressed.     Yet  he  shall  not  die, 
These  things  accomplish1  d :  —  If  he  utterly 
Scans  all  the  depths  of  magic,  and  expounds 
The  meanings  of  all  motions,  shapes,  and  sounds  : 
If  he  explores  all  forms  and  substances 
Straight  homeward  to  their  symbol-essences ; 
He  shall  not  die.     Moreover,  and  in  chief, 
He  must  pursue  this  task  of  joy  and  grief 
Most  piously ;  —  all  lovers  tempest-tost, 
And  in  the  savage  overwhelming  lost., 
He  shall  deposit  side  by  side,  until 


BOOK  in.  END  YM I  ON.  131 

Time's  creeping  shall  the  dreary  space  fulfil: 
Which  done,  and  all  these  labors  ripened, 
A  youth,  by  heavenly  power  lov'd  and  led, 
Shall  stand  before  him ;  whom  he  shall  direct 
How  to  consummate  all.     The  youth  elect 
Must  do  the  thing,  or  both  will  be  destroyed.'1'1 

"  Then,"  cried  the  young  Endymion,  overjoy'd, 
"We  are  twin  brothers  in  this  destiny! 
Say,  I  intreat  thee,  what  achievement  high 
Is,  in  this  restless  world,  for  me  reserv'd. 
What!  if  from  thee  my  wandering  feet  had  swerv'd, 
Had  we  both  perish'd  ?  "  —  "  Look ! "  the  sage  replied, 
"  Dost  thou  not  mark  a  gleaming  through  the  tide, 
Of  divers  brilliances  ?  'tis  the  edifice 
I  told  thee  of,  where  lovely  Scylla  lies ; 
And  where  I  have  enshrined  piously 
All  lovers,  whom  fell  storms  have  doom'd  to  die 
Throughout  my  bondage."     Thus  discoursing,  on 
They  went  till  unobscur?d  the  porches  shone ; 
Which  hurryingly  they  gain'd,  and  enterM  straight. 
Sure  never  since  king  Neptune  held  his  state 
Was  seen  such  wonder  underneath  the  stars. 
Turn  to  some  level  plain  where  haughty  Mars 
Has  legion'd  all  his  battle ;  and  behold 
How  every  soldier,  with  firm  foot,  doth  hold 
His  even  breast :  see,  many  steeled  squares, 
And  rigid  ranks  of  iron  —  whence  who  dares 
One  step?     Imagine  further,  line  by  line, 
These  warrior  thousands  on  the  field  supine :  — 
So  in  that  crystal  place,  in  silent  rows, 
Poor  lovers  lay  at  rest  from  joys  and  woes.  — 
The  stranger  from  the  mountains,  breathless,  trac'd 
Such  thousands  of  shut  eyes  in  order  plac'd ; 
Such  ranges  of  white  feet,  and  patient  lips 
All  ruddy,  —  for  here  death  no  blossom  nips. 
He  mark'd  their  brows  and  foreheads ;  saw  their  hair 
Put  sleekly  on  one  side  with  nicest  care ; 


132  ENDYMION.  BOOK  in 

And  each  one's  gentle  wrists,  with  reverence, 
Put  cross-wise  to  its  heart. 

"  Let  us  commence," 

Whispered  the  guide,  stuttering  with  joy,  "  even  now." 
He  spake,  and,  trembling  like  an  aspen-bough, 
Began  to  tear  his  scroll  in  pieces  small, 
Uttering  the  while  some  mumblings  funeral. 
He  tore  it  into  pieces  small  as  snow 
That  drifts  unfeather'd  when  bleak  northerns  blow ; 
And  having  done  it,  took  his  dark  blue  cloak 
And  bound  it  round  Endymion  :  then  struck 
His  wand  against  the  empty  air  times  nine.  — 
"  What  more  there  is  to  do,  young  man,  is  thine : 
But  first  a  little  patience  ;  first  undo 
This  tangled  thread,  and  wind  it  to  a  clue. 
Ah,  gentle!  'tis  as  weak  as  spider's  skein  ; 
And  shouldst  thou  break  it  —  What,  is  it  done  so 

clean? 

A  power  overshadows  thee!     Oh,  brave! 
The  spite  of  hell  is  tumbling  to  its  grave. 
Here  is  a  shell ;  'tis  pearly  blank  to  me, 
Nor  mark'd  with  any  sign  or  charactery  — 
Canst  thou  read  aught?    O  read  for  pity's  sake! 
Olympus!  we  are  safe!     Now,  Carian,  break 
This  wand  against  yon  lyre  on  the  pedestal." 

'Twas  done :  and  straight  with  sudden  swell  and 

fall 

Sweet  music  breath'd  her  soul  away,  and  sigh'd 
A  lullaby  to  silence.  —  "  Youth!  now  strew 
These  minced  leaves  on  me,  and  passing  through 
Those  files  of  dead,  scatter  the  same  around, 
And  thou  wilt  see  the  issue." —  'Mid  the  sound 
Of  flutes  and  viols,  ravishing  his  heart. 
Endymion  from  Glaucus  stood  apart, 
And  scatter'd  in  his  face  some  fragments  light. 
How  lightning-swift  the  change!  a  youthful  wight 
Smiling  beneath  a  coral  diadem, 


BOOK  in.  ENDYMION.  133 

Out-sparkling  sudden  like  an  upturned  gem, 

Appeared,  and,  stepping  to  a  beauteous  corse, 

Kneel'd  down  beside  it,  and  with  tenderest  force 

Press'd  its  cold  hand,  and  wept  —  and  Scylla  sigh'd' 

Endymion,  with  quick  hand,  the  charm  applied  — 

The  nymph  arose  :  he  left  them  to  their  joy, 

And  onward  went  upon  his  high  employ, 

Showering  those  powerful  fragments  on  the  dead- 

And,  as  he  pass'd,  each  lifted  up  its  head, 

As  doth  a  flower  at  Apollo's  touch. 

Death  felt  it  to  his  inwards ;  'twas  too  much : 

Death  fell  a  weeping  in  his  charnel-house. 

The  Latmian  persever'd  along,  and  thus 

All  were  re-animated.     There  arose 

A  noise  of  harmony,  pulses  and  throes 

Of  gladness  in  the  air —  while  many,  who 

Had  died  in  mutual  arms  devout  and  true, 

Sprang  to  each  other  madly ;  and  the  rest 

Felt  a  high  certainty  of  being  blest. 

They  gaz'd  upon  Endymion.     Enchantment 

Grew  drunken,  and  would  have  its  head  and  bent. 

Delicious  symphonies,  like  airy  flowers, 

Budded,  and  swell'd,  and.  full-blown,  shed  full  showers 

Of  light,  soft,  unseen  leaves  of  sounds  divine. 

The  two  deliverers  tasted  a  pure  wine 

Of  happiness,  from  fairy-press  ooz'd  out. 

Speechless  they  eyed  each  other,  and  about 

The  fair  assembly  wander'd  to  and  fro, 

Distracted  with  the  richest  overflow 

Of  joy  that  ever  pour'd  from  heaven. 

"Away!"' 

Shouted  the  new-born  god  ;  "  Follow,  and  pay 
Our  piety  to  Neptunus  supreme!  "- 
Then  Scylla5  blushing  sweetly  from  her  dream, 
They  led  on  first,  bent  to  her  meek  surprise, 
Through  portal  columns  of  a  giant  size, 
Into  the  vaulted,  boundless  emerald. 
Joyous  all  follow'd,  as  the  leader  call'd, 


134  ENDYMION.  BOOK  n 

Down  marble  steps  ;  pouring  as  easily 
As  hour-glass  sand  —  and  fast,  as  you  might  see 
Swallows  obeying  the  south  summer's  call, 
Or  swans  upon  a  gentle  waterfall. 

Thus  went  that  beautiful  multitude,  nor  far, 
Ere  from  among  some  rocks  of  glittering  spar, 
Just  within  ken,  they  saw  descending  thick 
Another  multitude.     Whereat  more  quick 
Moved  either  host.     On  a  wide  sand  they  met, 
And  of  those  numbers  every  eye  was  wet ; 
For  each  their  old  love  found.     A  murmuring  rose, 
Like  what  was  never  heard  in  all  the  throes 
Of  wind  and  waters  :  'tis  past  human  wit 
To  tell ;  'tis  dizziness  to  think  of  it. 

This  mighty  consummation  made,  the  host 
Mov'd  on  for  many  a  league  ;  and  gained,  and  lost 
Huge  sea-marks  ;  vanward  swelling  in  array, 
And  from  the  rear  diminishing  away,  — 
Till  a  faint  dawn  surprised  them.     Glaucus  cried, 
"  Behold!  behold,  the  palace  of  his  pride! 
God  Neptune's  palaces !  "     With  noise  increas'd, 
They  shoulder'd  on  towards  that  brightening  east. 
At  every  onward  step  proud  domes  arose 
In  prospect,  —  diamond  gleams,  and  golden  glows 
Of  amber  'gainst  their  faces  levelling. 
Joyous,  and  many  as  the  leaves  in  spring, 
Still  onward ;  still  the  splendor  gradual  swelPd. 
Rich  opal  domes  were  seen,  on 'high  upheld 
By  jasper  pillars,  letting  through  their  shafts 
A  blush  of  coral.     Copious  wonder-draughts 
Each  gazer  drank ;  and  deeper  drank  more  near: 
For  what  poor  mortals  fragment  up,  as  mere 
As  marble  was  there  lavish,  to  the  vast 
Of  one  fair  palace,  that  far  far  surpass'd, 
Even  for  common  bulk,  those  olden  three, 
Memphis,  and  Babylon,  and  Nineveh. 


BOOK  in.  ENDYMION.  135 

As  large,  as  bright,  as  colored  as  the  bow 
Of  Iris,  when  unfading  it  doth  shew 
Beyond  a  silver v  shower,  was  the  arch 
Through  which  mis  Paphian  army  took  its  march, 
Into  the  outer  courts  of  Neptune's  state  : 
Whence  could  be  seen,  direct,  a  golden  gate, 
To  which  the  leaders  sped ;  but  not  half  raught 
Ere  it  burst  open  swift  as  fairy  thought, 
And  made  those  dazzled  thousands  veil  their  eyes 
Like  callow  eagles  at  the  first  sunrise. 
Soon  with  an  eagle  nativeness  their  gaze 
Ripe  from  hue-golden  swoons  took  all  the  blaze, 
And  then,  behold !  large  Neptune  on  his  throne 
Of  emerald  deep :  yet  not  exalt  alone ; 
At  his  right  hand  stood  winged  Love,  and  on 
His  left  sat  smiling  Beauty's  paragon. 

Far  as  the  mariner  on  highest  mast 
Can  see  all  round  upon  the  calmed  vast, 
So  wide  was  Neptune's  hall :  and  as  the  blue 
Doth  vault  the  waters,  so  the  waters  drew 
Their  doming  curtains,  high,  magnificent, 
Aw'd  from  the  throne  aloof;  —  and  when  storm-rent 
Disclos'd  the  thunder-gloomings  in  Jove's  air ; 
But  sooth'd  as  now,  flash'd  sudden  everywhere, 
Noiseless,  sub-marine  cloudlets,  glittering 
Death  to  a  human  eye  :  for  there  did  spring 
From  natural  west,  and  east,  and  south,  and  north, 
A  light  as  of  four  sunsets,  blazing  forth 
A  gold-green  zenith  'bove  the  Sea-God's  head. 
Of  lucid  depth  the  floor,  and  far  outspread 
As  breezeless  lake,  on  which  the  slim  canoe 
Of  feather'd  Indian  darts  about,  as  through 
The  delicatest  air :  air  verily, 
But  for  the  portraiture  of  clouds  and  sky : 
This  palace  floor  breath-air,  —  but  for  the  amaze 
Of  deep-seen  wonders  motionless,  —  and  blaze 
Of  the  dome  pomp,  reflected  in  extremes, 
Globing  a  golden  sphere. 


136  ENDYMION.  BOOK  in 

They  stood  in  dreams 

Till  Triton  blew  his  horn.     The  palace  rang ; 
The  Nereids  danc'd ;  the  Syrens  faintly  sang ; 
And  the  great  Sea-King  bow'd  his  dripping  head. 
Then  Love  took  wing,  and  from  his  pinions  shed 
On  all  the  multitude  a  nectarous  dew. 
The  ooze-born  Goddess  beckoned  and  drew 
Fair  Scylla  and  her  guides  to  conference ; 
And  when  they  reached  the  throned  eminence 
She  kist  the  sea-nymph's  cheek,  —  who  sat  her  down 
A  toying  with  the  doves.     Then,  —  "  Mighty  crown 
And  sceptre  of  this  kingdom !  "  Venus  said, 
"  Thy  vows  were  on  a  time  to  Nais  paid  : 
Behold!"  —  Two  copious  tear-drops  instant  fell 
From  the  God's  large  eyes ;  he  smil'd  delectable, 
And  over  Glaucus  held  his  blessing  hands.  — 
"Endymion!     Ah!  still  wandering  in  the  bands 
Of  love?     Now  this  is  cruel.     Since  the  hour 
I  met  thee  in  earth's  bosom,  all  my  power 
Have  I  put  forth  to  serve  thee.     What,  not  yet 
Escaped  from  dull  mortality's  harsh  net  ? 
A  little  patience,  youth !  'twill  not  be  long, 
Or  I  am  skilless  quite :  an  idle  tongue, 
A  humid  eye,  and  steps  luxurious, 
Where  these  are  new  and  strange,  are  ominous. 
Aye,  I  have  seen  these  signs  in  one  of  heaven. 
When  others  were  all  blind ;  and  were  I  given 
To  utter  secrets,  haply  I  might  say 
Some  pleasant  words  :  —  but  Love  will  have  his  day 
So  wait  awhile  expectant.     Pr'ythee  soon, 
Even  in  the  passing  of  thine  honey-moon, 
Visit  my  Cytherea :  thou  wilt  find 
Cupid  well-natured,  my  Adonis  kind  ; 
And  pray  persuade  with  thee  —  Ah,  I  have  done, 
All  blisses  be  upon  thee,  my  sweet  son!  "  — 
Thus  the  fair  goddess  :  while  Endymion 
Knelt  to  receive  those  accents  halcyon. 

Meantime  a  glorious  revelry  began 
Before  the  Water-Monarch.     Nectar  ran 


BOOK  in.  END  YMION. 


137 


In  courteous  fountains  to  all  cups  outreach'd  ; 

And  plunder'd  vines,  teeming  exhaustless,  pleach'd 

New  growth  about  each  shell  and  pendent  lyre ; 

The  which,  in  disentangling  for  their  fire, 

Pull'd  down  fresh  foliage  and  coverture 

For  dainty  toying.     Cupid,  empire-sure, 

Flutter'd    and   laugh'd,   and    oft-times   through   the 

throng 

Made  a  delighted  way.     Then  dance,  and  song, 
And  garlanding  grew  wild  ;  and  pleasure  reign'd. 
In  harmless  tendril  they  each  other  chain'd, 
And  strove  who  should  be  smother'd  deepest  in 
Fresh  crush  of  leaves. 

O  'tis  a  very  sin 

For  one  so  weak  to  venture  his  poor  verse 
In  such  a  place  as  this.     O  do  not  curse, 
High  Muses!  let  him  hurry  to  the  ending. 

All  suddenly  were  silent.     A  soft  blending 
Of  dulcet  instruments  came  charmingly ; 
And  then  a  hymn. 

"  KING  of  the  stormy  sea! 
Brother  of  Jove,  and  co-inheritor 
Of  elements!     Eternally  before 
Thee  the  waves  awful  bow.     Fast,  stubborn  rock, 
At  thy  feard  trident  shrinking,  doth  unlock 
Its  deepest  foundations,  hissing  into  foam. 
All  mountain-rivers  lost,  in  the  wide  home 
Of  thy  capacious  bosom  ever  flow. 
Thou  frownest,  and  old  Eolus  thy  foe 
Skulks  to  his  cavern,  'mid  the  gruff  complaint 
Of  all  his  rebel  tempests.     Dark  clouds  faint 
When,  from  thy  diadem,  a  silver  gleam 
Slants  over  blue  dominion.     Thy  bright  team 
Gulphs  in  the  morning  light,  and  scuds  along 
To  bring  thee  nearer  to  that  golden  song 
Apollo  singeth,  while  his  chariot 
Waits  at  the  doors  of  heaven.     Thou  art  not 
For  scenes  like  this  :  an  empire  stern  hast  thou ; 


138  ENDYMION.  BOOK  ni. 

And  it  hath  furrow'd  that  large  front :  yet  now, 

As  newly  come  of  heaven,  dost  thou  sit 

To  blend  and  interknit 

Subdued  majesty  with  this  glad  time. 

O  shell-borne  King  sublime! 

We  lay  our  hearts  before  thee  evermore  — 

We  sing,  and  we  adore! 

"  Breathe  softly,  flutes ; 
Be  tender  of  your  strings,  ye  soothing  lutes  ; 
Nor  be  the  trumpet  heard!  O  vain,  O  vain ; 
Not  flowers  budding  in  an  April  rain, 
Nor  breath  of  sleeping  dove,  nor  river's  flow,  — 
No,  nor  the  Eolian  twang  of  Love's  own  bow, 
Can  mingle  music  fit  for  the  soft  ear 
Of  goddess  Cytherea! 

Yet  deign,  white  Queen  of  Beauty,  thy  fair  eyes 
On  our  souls'  sacrifice. 

"Bright-winged  Child! 

Who  has  another  care  when  thou  hast  smil'd? 
Unfortunates  on  earth,  we  see  at  last 
All  death-shadows,  and  glooms  that  overcast 
Our  spirits,  fann'd  away  by  thy  light  pinions. 
O  sweetest  essence!  sweetest  of  all  minions! 
God  of  warm  pulses,  and  dishevell'd  hair, 
And  panting  bosoms  bare! 
Dear  unseen  light  in  darkness!  eclipser 
Of  light  in  light!  delicious  poisoner! 
Thy  venom'd  goblet  will  we  quaff  until 
We  fill  — we  fill! 
And  by  thy  Mother's  lips " 

Was  heard  no  more 

For  clamor,  when  the  golden  palace  door 
Opened  again,  and  from  without,  in  shone 
A  new  magnificence.     On  oozy  throne 
Smooth-moving  came  Oceanus  the  old, 
To  take  a  latest  glimpse  at  his  sheep-fold, 
Before  he  went  into  his  quiet  cave 


BOOK  in.  ENDYMION.  139 

To  muse  for  ever  —  Then  a  lucid  wave, 
Scoop'd  from  its  trembling  sisters  of  mid-sea, 
Afloat,  and  pillowing  up  the  majesty 
Of  Doris,  and  the  Egean  seer,  her  spouse  — 
Next,  on  a  dolphin,  clad  in  laurel  boughs, 
Theban  Amphion  leaning  on  his  lute : 
His  fingers  went  across  it — All  were  mute 
To  gaze  on  Amphitrite,  queen  of  pearls, 
And  Thetis  pearly  too.  — 

The  palace  whirls 

Around  giddy  Endymion ;  seeing  he 
Was  there  far  strayed  from  mortality. 
He  could  not  bear  it  —  shut  his  eyes  in  vain ; 
Imagination  gave  a  dizzier  pain. 
"  O  I  shall  die!  sweet  Venus,  be  my  stay! 
Where  is  my  lovely  mistress?    Well-away! 
I  die  —  I  hear  her  voice  —  I  feel  my  wing  — " 
At  Neptune's  feet  he  sank.     A  sudden  ring 
Of  Nereids  were  about  him,  in  kind  strife 
To  usher  back  his  spirit  into  life : 
But  still  he  slept.     At  last  they  interwove 
Their  cradling  arms,  and  purpos'd  to  convey 
Towards  a  crystal  bower  far  away. 

Lo!  while  slow  carried  through  the  pitying  crowd, 
To  his  inward  senses  these  words  spake  aloud ; 
Written  in  star-light  on  the  dark  above : 
Dearest  Endymion !  my  entire  love ! 
How  have  1  dwelt  in  fear  of  fate :  "'tis  done  — 
Immortal  bliss  for  me  too  hast  thou  won. 
Arise  then  !  for  the  hen-dove  shall  not  hatch 
Her  ready  eggs,  before  /'//  kissing  snatch 
Thee  into  endless  heaven.     Awake .'  awake! 

The  youth  at  once  arose  :  a  placid  lake 
Came  quiet  to  his  eyes  ;  and  forest  green, 
Cooler  than  all  the  wonders  he  had  seen, 
Lull'd  with  its  simple  song  his  fluttering  breast. 
How  happy  once  again  in  grassy  nest! 


ENDYMION. 


BOOK   IV. 

MUSE  of  my  native  land!  loftiest  Muse! 

O  first-born  on  the  mountains!  by  the  hues 

Of  heaven  on  the  spiritual  air  begot : 

Long  didst  thou  sit  alone  in  northern  grot, 

While  yet  our  England  was  a  wolfish  den  ; 

Before  our  forests  heard  the  talk  of  men  ; 

Before  the  first  of  Druids  was  a  child  ;  — 

Long  didst  thou  sit  amid  our  regions  wild 

Rapt  in  a  deep  prophetic  solitude. 

There  came  an  eastern  voice  of  solemn  mood  :  — 

Yet  wast  thou  patient.     Then  sang  forth  the  Nine, 

Apollo's  garland  :  —  yet  didst  thou  divine 

Some  home-bred  glory,  that  they  cry'd  in  vain, 

"  Come  hither,  Sister  of  the  Island! -1     Plain 

Spake  fair  Ausonia ;  and  once  more  she  spake 

A  higher  summons :  —  still  didst  thou  betake 

Thee  to  thy  native  hopes.     O  thou  hast  won 

A  full  accomplishment!     The  thing  is  done, 

Which  undone,  these  our  latter  days  had  risen 

On  barren  souls.     Great  Muse,  thou  know'st  what 

prison 

Of  flesh  and  bone,  curbs,  and  confines,  and  frets 
Our  spirit's  wings  :  despondency  besets 
Our  pillows  ;  and  the  fresh  to-morrow  morn 
Seems  to  give  forth  its  light  in  very  scorn 
Of  our  dull,  uninspired,  snail-paced  lives. 
140 


BOOK  iv.  ENDYMION.  141 

Long  have  I  said,  how  happy  he  who  shrives 
To  thee!     But  then  I  thought  on  poets  gone, 
And  could  not  pray  :  —  nor  can  I  now  —  so  on 
I  move  to  the  end  in  lowliness  of  heart. 

"  Ah,  woe  is  me!  that  I  should  fondly  part 
From  my  dear  native  land !    Ah,  foolish  maid ! 
Glad  was  the  hour,  when,  with  thee,  myriads  bade 
Adieu  to  Ganges  and  their  pleasant  fields! 
To  one  so  friendless  the  clear  freshet  yields 
A  bitter  coolness ;  the  ripe  grape  is  sour : 
Yet  I  would  have,  great  gods!  but  one  short  hour 
Of  native  air —  let  me  but  die  at  home." 

Endymion  to  heaven's  airy  dome 
Was  offering  up  a  hecatomb  of  vows, 
When  these  words  reach'd  him.   Whereupon  he  bows 
His  head  through  thorny-green  entanglement 
Of  underwood,  and  to  the  sound  is  bent, 
Anxious  as  hind  towards  her  hidden  fawn. 

"  Is  no  one  near  to  help  me  ?    No  fair  dawn 
Of  life  from  charitable  voice?     No  sweet  saying 
To  set  my  dull  and  sadden' d  spirit  playing? 
No  hand  to  toy  with  mine  ?     No  lips  so  sweet 
That  I  may  worship  them  ?     No  eyelids  meet 
To  twinkle  on  my  bosom?     No  one  dies 
Before  me,  till  from  these  enslaving  eyes 
Redemption  sparkles!  —  I  am  sad  and  lost." 

Thou,  Carian  lord,  hadst  better  have  been  tost 
Into  a  whirlpool.     Vanish  into  air, 
Warm  mountaineer!  for  canst  thou  only  bear 
A  woman's  sigh  alone  and  in  distress? 
See  not  her  charms !     Is  Phoebe  passionless  ? 
Phoebe  is  fairer  far  —  O  gaze  no  more :  — 
Yet  if  thou  wilt  behold  all  beauty's  store, 
Behold  her  panting  in  the  forest  grass! 
Do  not  those  curls  of  glossy  jet  surpass 


I42  END  YM I  ON.  BOOK  iv. 

For  tenderness  the  arms  so  idly  lain 
Amongst  them  ?     Feelest  not  a  kindred  pain, 
To  see  such  lovely  eyes  in  swimming  search 
After  some  warm  delight,  that  seems  to  perch 
Dovelike  in  the  dim  cell  lying  beyond 
Their  upper  lids ?  —  Hist! 

"  O  for  Hermes1  wand, 
To  touch  this  flower  into  human  shape! 
That  woodland  Hyacinthus  could  escape 
From  his  green  prison,  and  here  kneeling  down 
Call  me  his  queen,  his  second  life's  fair  crown ! 
Ah  me,  how  I  could  love!  —  My  soul  doth  melt 
For  the  unhappy  youth —  Love!  I  have  felt 
So  faint  a  kindness,  such  a  meek  surrender 
To  what  my  own  full  thoughts  had  made  too  tender, 
That  but  for  tears  my  life  had  fled  away !  — 
Ye  deaf  and  senseless  minutes  of  the  day, 
And  thou,  old  forest,  hold  ye  this  for  true, 
There  is  no  lightning,  no  authentic  dew 
But  in  the  eye  of  love  :  there's  not  a  sound, 
Melodious  howsoever,  can  confound 
The  heavens  and  earth  in  one  to  such  a  death 
As  doth  the  voice  of  love  :  there's  not  a  breath 
Will  mingle  kindly  with  the  meadow  air, 
Till  it  has  panted  round,  and  stolen  a  share 
Of  passion  from  the  heart !  "  — 

Upon  a  bough 

He  leant,  wretched.     He  surely  cannot  now 
Thirst  for  another  love  :  O  impious, 
That  he  can  even  dream  upon  it  thus!  — 
Thought  he,  "  Why  am  I  not  as  are  the  dead, 
Since  to  a  woe  like  this  I  have  been  led 
Through  the  dark  earth,  and  through  the  wondrous 

sea? 

Goddess!  I  love  thee  not  the  less :  from  thee 
By  Juno's  smile  I  turn  not  —  no,  no,  no  — 
While  the  great  waters  are  at  ebb  and  flow.  — 


BOOK  iv.  END  YM I  ON.  143 

I  have  a  triple  soul!    O  fond  pretence  — 
For  both,  for  both  my  love  is  so  immense, 
I  feel  my  heart  is  cut  in  twain  for  them." 

And  so  he  groan'd,  as  one  by  beauty  slain. 
The  lady's  heart  beat  quick,  and  he  could  see 
Her  gentle  bosom  heave  tumultuously. 
He  sprang  from  his  green  covert :  there  she  lay, 
Sweet  as  a  muskrose  upon  new-made  hay ; 
With  all  her  limbs  on  tremble,  and  her  eyes 
Shut  softly  up  alive.     To  speak  he  tries. 
"Fair  damsel,  pity  me!  forgive  that  I 
Thus  violate  thy  bower's  sanctity! 

0  pardon  me,  for  I  am  full  of  grief— 

Grief  born  of  thee,  young  angel !  fairest  thief! 
Who  stolen  hast  away  the  wings  wherewith 

1  was  to  top  the  heavens.     Dear  maid,  sith 
Thou  art  my  executioner,  and  I  feel 
Loving  and  hatred,  misery  and  weal, 

Will  in  a  few  short  hours  be  nothing  to  me, 

And  all  my  story  that  much  passion  slew  me ; 

Do  smile  upon  the  evening  of  my  days : 

And.  for  my  torturd  brain  begins  to  craze, 

Be  thou  my  nurse  ;  and  let  me  understand 

How  dying  I  shall  kiss  that  lily  hand.  — 

Dost  weep  for  me?     Then  should  I  be  content. 

Scowl  on,  ye  fates!  until  the  firmament 

Outblackens  Erebus,  and  the  full-cavern'd  earth 

Crumbles  into  itself.     By  the  cloud  girth 

Of  Jove,  those  tears  have  given  me  a  thirst 

To  meet  oblivion." — As  her  heart  would  burst 

The  maiden  sobb'd  awhile,  and  then  replied : 

"  Why  must  such  desolation  betide 

As  that  thou  speakest  of?    Are  not  these  green  nooks 

Empty  of  all  misfortune?     Do  the  brooks 

Utter  a  gorgon  voice  ?     Does  yonder  thrush, 

Schooling  its  half-fledg'd  little  ones  to  brush 

About  the  dewy  forest,  whisper  tales  ?  — 

Speak  not  of  grief,  young  stranger,  or  cold  snails 


144  ENDYMTON.  BOOK  iv. 

Will  slime  the  rose  to  night.     Though  if  thou  wilt, 

Methinks  'twould  be  a  guilt—  a  very  guilt  — 

Not  to  companion  thee,  and  sigh  away 

The  light  —  the  dusk  —  the  dark  —  till  break  of  day  ! ' 

"  Dear  lady,"  said  Endymion,  "  'tis  past : 

I  love  thee!  and  my  days  can  never  last. 

That  I  may  pass  in  patience  still  speak : 

Let  me  have  music  dying,  and  I  seek 

No  more  delight  —  I  bid  adieu  to  all. 

Didst  thou  not  after  other  climates  call, 

And  murmur  about  Indian  streams?"  —  Then  she, 

Sitting  beneath  the  midmost  forest  tree, 

For  pity  sang  this  roundelay 

"  O  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  natural  hue  of  health,  from  vermeil  lips  ?  — 

To  give  maiden  blushes 

To  the  white  rose  bushes  ? 
Or  is  it  thy  dewy  hand  the  daisy  tips  ? 

"  O  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  lustrous  passion  from  a  falcon-eye?  — 

To  give  the  glow-worm  light  ? 

Or,  on  a  moonless  night, 
To  tinge,  on  syren  shores,  the  salt  sea-spry  ? 

"  O  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  mellow  ditties  from  a  mourning  tongue  ?  — 

To  give  at  evening  pale 

Unto  the  nightingale, 
That  thou  mayst  listen  the  cold  dews  among? 

«  O  Sorrow, 
Why  dost  borrow 
Heart's  lightness  from  the  merriment  of  May?  — 


BOOK  iv.  ENDYMION.  145 

A  lover  would  not  tread 

A  cowslip  on  the  head, 
Though  he  should  dance  from  eve  till  peep  of  day  — 

Nor  any  drooping  flower 

Held  sacred  for  thy  bower, 
Wherever  he  may  sport  himself  and  play. 

"To  Sorrow, 

I  bade  good-morrow, 
And  thought  to  leave  her  far  away  behind ; 

But  cheerly,  cheerly, 

She  loves  me  dearly ; 
She  is  so  constant  to  me,  and  so  kind : 

I  would  deceive  her 

And  so  leave  her, 
But  ah!  she  is  so  constant  and  so  kind. 

"  Beneath  my  palm  trees,  by  the  river  side, 
I  sat  a  weeping :  in  the  whole  world  wide 
There  was  no  one  to  ask  me  why  I  wept,  — 

And  so  I  kept 
Brimming  the  water-lily  cups  with  tears 

Cold  as  my  fears. 

"  Beneath  my  palm  trees,  by  the  river  side, 
I  sat  a  weeping :  what  enamour'd  bride, 
Cheated  by  shadowy  wooer  from  the  clouds. 

But  hides  and  shrouds 
Beneath  dark  palm  trees  by  a  river  side  ? 

"  And  as  I  sat,  over  the  light  blue  hills 
There  came  a  noise  of  revellers  :  the  rills 
Into  the  wide  stream  came  of  purple  hue  — 

'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  crew! 
The  earnest  trumpet  spake,  and  silver  thrills 
From  kissing  cymbals  made  a  merry  din  — 

'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  kin! 
Like  to  a  moving  vintage  down  they  came, 
Crown'd  with  green  leaves,  and  faces  all  on  flame ; 


146  ENDYMION.  BOOK  iv. 

All  madly  dancing  through  the  pleasant  valley, 

To  scare  thee,  Melancholy! 
O  then,  O  then,  thou  wast  a  simple  name! 
And  I  forgot  thee,  as  the  berried  holly 
By  shepherds  is  forgotten,  when,  in  June, 
Tall  chesnuts  keep  away  the  sun  and  moon :  — 

I  rush'd  into  the  folly! 

"  Within  his  car,  aloft,  young  Bacchus  stood, 
Trifling  his  ivy-dart,  in  dancing  mood, 

With  sidelong  laughing ; 
And  little  rills  of  crimson  wine  imbrued 
His  plump  white  arms,  and  shoulders,  enough  white 

For  Venus'  pearly  bite ; 
And  near  him  rode  Silenus  on  his  ass, 
Pelted  with  flowers  as  he  on  did  pass 

Tipsily  quaffing. 

"Whence  came  ye,  merry  Damsels!  whence  came  ye! 
So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 
Why  have  ye  left  your  bowers  desolate, 

Your  lutes,  and  gentler  fate  ?  — 
'  We  follow  Bacchus !     Bacchus  on  the  wing, 

A  conquering! 

Bacchus,  young  Bacchus!  good  or  ill  betide, 
We  dance  before  him  thorough  kingdoms  wide  :  — 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  our  wild  minstrelsy!' 

"Whence  came  ye,  jolly  Satyrs!  whence  came  ye! 
So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee? 
Why  have  ye  left  your  forest  haunts,  why  left 

Your  nuts  in  oak-tree  cleft  ?  — 
'  For  wine,  for  wine  we  left  our  kernel  tree ; 
For  wine  we  left  our  heath,  and  yellow  brooms, 

And  cold  mushrooms ; 

For  wine  we  follow  Bacchus  through  the  earth ; 
Great  God  of  breathless  cups  and  chirping  mirth !  — 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 
To  our  mad  minstrelsy! ' 


BOOK  iv.  ENDYMION.  147 

"  Over  wide  streams  and  mountains  great  we  went, 
And,  save  when  Bacchus  kept  his  ivy  tent, 
Onward  the  tiger  and  the  leopard  pants, 

With  Asian  elephants : 

Onward  these  myriads  —  with  song  and  dance, 
With  zebras  striped,  and  sleek  Arabians'  prance, 
Web-footed  alligators,  crocodiles, 
Bearing  upon  their  scaly  backs,  in  files, 
Plump  infant  laughers  mimicking  the  coil 
Of  seamen,  and  stout  galley-rowers'  toil : 
With  toying  oars  and  silken  sails  they  glide, 

Nor  care  for  wind  and  tide. 

"  Mounted  on  panthers'  furs  and  lions'  manes, 
From  rear  to  van  they  scour  about  the  plains ; 
A  three  days'  journey  in  a  moment  done : 
And  always,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
About  the  wilds  they  hunt  with  spear  and  horn, 
On  spleenful  unicorn. 

"  I  saw  Osirian  Egypt  kneel  adown 

Before  the  vine-wreath  crown! 
I  saw  parch'd  Abyssinia  rouse  and  sing 

To  the  silver  cymbals'  ring! 
I  saw  the  whelming  vintage  hotly  pierce 

Old  Tartary  the  fierce! 
The  kings  of  Inde  their  jewel-sceptres  vail, 
And  from  their  treasures  scatter  pearled  hail ; 
Great  Brahma  from  his  mystic  heaven  groans, 

And  all  his  priesthood  moans  ; 
Before  young  Bacchus'  eye-wink  turning  pale.  — 
Into  these  regions  came  I  following  him, 
Sick  hearted,  weary  —  so  I  took  a  whim 
To  stray  away  into  these  forests  drear 

Alone,  without  a  peer: 
And  I  have  told  thee  all  thou  mayest  hear. 

"Young  stranger! 
I've  been  a  ranger 
In  search  of  pleasure  throughout  every  clinic: 


1 48  END  YMION.  HOC 

Alas!  'tis  not  for  me! 
Bewitch'd  I  sure  must  be, 
To  lose  in  grieving  all  my  maiden  prime. 

"Come  then,  Sorrow! 

Sweetest  Sorrow! 
Like  an  own  babe  I  nurse  thee  on  my  breast : 

I  thought  to  leave  thee 

And  deceive  thee, 
But  now  of  all  the  world  I  love  thee  best. 

"  There  is  not  one, 

No,  no,  not  one 
But  thee  to  comfort  a  poor  lonely  maid  ; 

Thou  art  her  mother, 

And  her  brother, 
Her  playmate,  and  her  wooer  in  the  shade." 


O  what  a  sigh  she  gave  in  finishing, 
And  look,  quite  dead  to  every  worldly  thing! 
Endymion  could  not  speak,  but  gazed  on  her ; 
And  listened  to  the  wind  that  now  did  stir 
About  the  crisped  oaks  full  drearily, 
Yet  with  as  sweet  a  softness  as  might  be 
Remember'd  from  its  velvet  summer  song. 
At  last  he  said  :  "  Poor  lady,  how  thus  long 
Have  I  been  able  to  endure  that  voice  ? 
Fair  Melody!  kind  Syren!  IVe  no  choice; 
I  must  be  thy  sad  servant  evermore  : 
I  cannot  choose  but  kneel  here  and  adore. 
Alas,  I  must  not  think — by  Phoebe,  no! 
Let  me  not  think,  soft  Angel!  shall  it  be  so? 
Say,  beautifullest,  shall  I  never  think? 
O  thou  could'st  foster  me  beyond  the  brink 
Of  recollection!  make  my  watchful  care 
Close  up  its  bloodshot  eyes,  nor  see  despair! 
Do  gently  murder  half  my  soul,  and  I 
Shall  f°*l  the  other  half  s'o  utterly!  — 


BOOK  iv.  ENDYMION.  149 

I'm  giddy  at  that  cheek  so  fair  and  smooth ; 

O  let  it  blush  so  ever!  let  it  soothe 

My  madness!  let  it  mantle  rosy-warm 

With  the  tinge  of  love,  panting  in  safe  alarm.  — 

This  cannot  be  thy  hand,  and  yet  it  is ; 

And  this  is  sure  thine  other  soitling  —  this 

Thine  own  fair  bosom,  and  I  am  so  near! 

Wilt  fall  asleep?     O  let  me  sip  that  tear! 

And  whisper  one  sweet  word  that  I  may  know 

This  is  this  world  —  sweet  dewy  blossom!  " —  Woe  I 

Woe'.    Woe  to  that  Endymion !     Where  is  he? — 

Even  these  words  went  echoing  dismally 

Through  the  wide  forest  —  a  most  fearful  tone, 

Like  one  repenting  in  his  latest  moan ; 

And  while  it  died  away  a  shade  pass'd  by, 

As  of  a  thunder  cloud.     When  arrows  fly 

Through  the  thick  branches,  poor  ring-doves  sleek 

forth 

Their  timid  necks  and  tremble ;  so  these  both 
Leant  to  each  other  trembling,  and  sat  so 
Waiting  for  some  destruction  —  when  lo, 
Foot-feather'd  Mercury  appear'd  sublime 
Beyond  the  tall  tree  tops  ;  and  in  less  time 
Than  shoots  the  slanted  hail-storm,  down  he  dropt 
Towards  the  ground  ;  but  rested  not,  nor  stopt 
One  moment  from  his  home :  only  the  sward 
He  with  his  wand  light  touch'd,  and  heavenward 
Swifter  than  sight  was  gone  —  even  before 
The  teeming  earth  a  sudden  witness  bore 
Of  his  swift  magic.     Diving  swans  appear 
Above  the  crystal  circlings  white  and  clear ; 
And  catch  the  cheated  eye  in  wild  surprise, 
How  they  can  dive  in  sight  and  unseen  rise  — 
So  from  the  turf  outsprang  two  steeds  jet-black, 
Each  with  large  dark  blue  wings  upon  his  back. 
The  youth  of  Caria  plac'd  the  lovely  dame 
On  one,  and  felt  himself  in  spleen  to  tame 
The  other's  fierceness.     Through  the  air  they  flew, 
High  as  the  eagles.     Like  two  drops  of  dew 


150  ENDYMION.  BOOK  iv 

Exhal'd  to  Phoebus1  lips,  away  they  are  gone, 

Far  from  the  earth  away  —  unseen,  alone, 

Among  cool  clouds  and  winds,  but  that  the  free, 

The  buoyant  life  of  song  can  floating  be 

Above  their  heads,  and  follow  them  untir'd.  — 

Muse  of  my  native  land,  am  I  inspired  ? 

This  is  the  giddy  air,  and  I  must  spread 

Wide  pinions  to  keep  here  ;  nor  do  I  dread 

Or  height,  or  depth,  or  width,  or  any  chance 

Precipitous  :  I  have  beneath  my  glance 

Those  towering  horses  and  their  mournful  freight. 

Could  I  thus  sail,  and  see,  and  thus  await 

Fearless  for  power  of  thought,  without  thine  aid  ?  — 

There  is  a  sleepy  dusk,  an  odorous  shade 

From  some  approaching  wonder,  and  behold 

Those  winged  steeds,  with  snorting  nostrils  bold 

Snuff  at  its  faint  extreme,  and  seem  to  tire, 

Dying  to  embers  from  their  native  fire ! 

There  curl'd  a  purple  mist  around  them ;  soon, 
It  seem'd  as  when  around  the  pale  new  moon 
Sad  Zephyr  droops  the  clouds  like  weeping  willow : 
'Twas  Sleep  slow  journeying  with  head  on  pillow. 
For  the  first  time,  since  he  came  nigh  dead  born 
From  the  old  womb  of  night,  his  cave  forlorn 
Had  he  left  more  forlorn ;  for  the  first  time, 
He  felt  aloof  the  day  and  morning's  prime  — 
Because  into  his  depth  Cimmerian 
There  came  a  dream,  shewing  how  a  young  man, 
Ere  a  lean  bat  could  plump  its  wintery  skin, 
Would  at  high  Jove's  empyreal  footstool  win 
An  immortality,  and  how  espouse 
Jove's  daughter,  and  be  reckon'd  of  his  house. 
Now  was  he  slumbering  towards  heaven's  gate, 
That  he  might  at  the  threshold  one  hour  wait 
To  hear  the  marriage  melodies,  and  then 
Sink  downward  to  his  dusky  cave  again. 
His  litter  of  smooth  semilucent  mist, 
Diversely  ting'd  with  rose  and  amethyst, 


BOOK  iv.  ENDYMION.  151 

Puzzled  those  eyes  that  for  the  centre  sought ; 

And  scarcely  for  one  moment  could  be  caught 

His  sluggish  form  reposing  motionless. 

Those  two  on  winged  steeds,  with  all  the  stress 

Of  vision  search'd  for  him,  as  one  would  look 

Athwart  the  sallows  of  a  river  nook 

To  catch  a  glance  at  silver  throated  eels,  — 

Or  from  old  Skiddaw's  top,  when  fog  conceals 

His  rugged  forehead  in  a  mantle  pale, 

With  an  eye-guess  towards  some  pleasant  vale 

Descry  a  favorite  hamlet  faint  and  far. 

These  raven  horses,  though  they  foster'd  are 
Of  earth's  splenetic  fire,  dully  drop 
Their  full-veined  ears,  nostrils  blood  wide,  and  stop , 
Upon  the  spiritless  mist  have  they  outspread 
Their  ample  feathers,  are  in  slumber  dead, — 
And  on  those  pinions,  level  in  mid  air, 
Endymion  sleepeth  and  the  lady  fair. 
Slowly  they  sail,  slowly  as  icy  isle 
Upon  a  calm  sea  drifting :  and  meanwhile 
The  mournful  wanderer  dreams.     Behold!  he  walks 
On  heaven's  pavement ;  brotherly  he  talks 
To  divine  powers  :  from  his  hand  full  fain 
Juno's  proud  birds  are  pecking  pearly  grain : 
He  tries  the  nerve  of  Phoebus1  golden  bow, 
And  asketh  where  the  golden  apples  grow : 
Upon  his  arm  he  braces  Pallas'  shield, 
And  strives  in  vain  to  unsettle  and  wield 
A  Jovian  thunderbolt :  arch  Hebe  brings 
A  full-brimm'd  goblet,  dances  lightly,  sings 
And  tantalizes  long ;  at  last  he  drinks, 
And  lost  in  pleasure  at  her  feet  he  sinks, 
Touching  with  dazzled  lips  her  starlight  hand. 
He  blows  a  bugle,  —  an  ethereal  band 
Are  visible  above  :  the  Seasons  four,  — 
Green-kyrtled  Spring,  flush  Summer,  golden  store 
In  Autumn's  sickle,  Winter  frosty  hoar, 
Join  dance  with  shadowy  Hours  ;  while  still  the  blast, 


152  END  YMION.  BOOK  iv. 

In  swells  unmitigated,  still  doth  last 
To  sway  their  floating  morris.     "Whose  is  this? 
Whose  bugle?"  he  inquires:  they  smile  —  "O  Dis! 
Why  is  this  mortal  here?     Dost  thou  not  know 
Its  mistress' lips?     Not  thou?  —  'Tis  Dian's :  lo! 
She  rises  crescented!''     He  looks,  'tis  she, 
His  very  goddess :  good-bye  earth,  and  sea, 
And  air,  and  pains,  and  care,  and  suffering ; 
Good-bye  to  all  but  love!     Then  doth  he  spring 
Towards  her,  and  awakes  —  and,  strange,  o'erhead, 
Of  those  same  fragrant  exhalations  bred, 
Beheld  awake  his  very  dream  :  the  gods 
Stood  smiling ;  merry  Hebe  laughs  and  nods  ; 
And  Phrebe  bends  towards  him  crescented. 

0  state  perplexing!     On  the  pinion  bed, 
Too  well  awake,  he  feels  the  panting  side 
Of  his  delicious  lady.     He  who  died 
For  soaring  too  audacious  in  the  sun, 

Where  that  same  treacherous  wax  began  to  run, 
Felt  not  more  tongue-tied  than  Endymion. 
His  heartJeapt  up  as  to  its  rightful  throne. 
To  that  fair  shadow'd  passion  puls'd  its  way  — 
Ah,  what  perplexity!     Ah,  well  a  day! 
So  fond,  so  beauteous  was  his  bed-fellow, 
He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her :  then  he  grew 
Awhile  forgetful  of  all  beauty  save 
Young  Phoebe's,  golden  hair'd ;  and  so  'gan  crave 
Forgiveness :  yet  he  turned  once  more  to  look 
At  the  sweet  sleeper,  —  all  his  soul  was  shook,  — 
She  press'd  his  hand  in  slumber ;  so  once  more 
He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her  and  adore. 
At  this  the  shadow  wept,  melting  away. 
The  Latmian  started  up  :  "  Bright  goddess,  stay! 
Search   my  most    hidden   breast!     By   truth's    own 
tongue, 

1  have  no  daedale  heart :  why  is  it  wrung 
To  desperation?     Is  there  nought  for  me, 
Upon  the  bourne  of  bliss,  but  misery  ?  " 


BOOK  iv.  ENDYMION.  153 

These  words  awoke  the  stranger  of  dark  tresses  : 
Her  dawning  love-look  rapt  Endymion  blesses 
With  'havior  soft.     Sleep  yawned  from  underneath. 
"  Thou  swan  of  Ganges,  let  us  no  more  breathe 
This  murky  phantasm!  thou  contented  seem'st 
Pillow'd  in  lovely  idleness,  nor  dream'st 
What  horrors  may  discomfort  thee  and  me. 
Ah,  shouldst  thou  die  from  my  heart-treachery!  — 
Yet  did  she  merely  weep  —  her  gentle  soul 
Hath  no  revenge  in  it :  as  it  is  whole 
In  tenderness,  would  I  were  whole  in  love! 
Can  I  prize  thee,  fair  maid,  all  price  above, 
Even  when  I  feel  as  true  as  innocence? 
I  do,  I  do.  —  What  is  this  soul  then?     Whence 
Came  it?     It  does  not  seem  my  own,  and  I 
Have  no  self-passion  or  identity. 
Some  fearful  end  must  be :  where,  where  is  it  ? 
By  Nemesis,  I  see  my  spirit  flit 
Alone  about  the  dark  —  Forgive  me,  sweet : 
Shall  we  away  ? "     He  rous'd  the  steeds :  they  beat 
Their  wings  chivalrous  into  the  clear  air, 
Leaving  old  Sleep  within  his  vapory  lair. 

The  good-night  blush  of  eve  was  waning  slow, 
And  Vesper,  risen  star,  began  to  throe 
In  the  dusk  heavens  silvery,  when  they 
Thus  sprang  direct  towards  the  Galaxy. 
Nor  did  speed  hinder  converse  soft  and  strange  — 
Eternal  oaths  and  vows  they  interchange, 
In  such  wise,  in  such  temper,  so  aloof 
Up  in  the  winds,  beneath  a  starry  roof, 
So  witless  of  their  doom,  that  verily 
'Tis  well  nigh  past  man's  search  their  hearts  to  see ; 
Whether  they  wept,  or  laugh'd,  or  griev'd.  or  toy'd  — 
Most  like  with  joy  gone  mad,  with  sorrow  cloy'd. 

Full  facing  their  swift  flight,  from  ebon  streak, 
The  moon  put  forth  a  little  diamond  peak, 


154  END  YM I  ON.  BOOK  iv. 

No  bigger  than  an  unobserved  star, 

Or  tiny  point  of  fairy  scymetar ; 

Bright  signal  that  she  only  stoop'd  to  tie 

Her  silver  sandals,  ere  deliciously 

She  bow'd  into  the  heavens  her  timid  head. 

Slowly  she  rose,  as  though  she  would  have  fled, 

While  to  his  lady  meek  the  Carian  turn'd, 

To  mark  if  her  dark  eyes  had  yet  discern'd 

This  beauty  in  its  birth  —  Despair!  despair! 

He  saw  her  body  fading  gaunt  and  spare 

In  the  cold  moonshine.     Straight  he  seiz'd  her  wrist ; 

It  melted  from  his  grasp :  her  hand  he  kissM, 

And,  horror!  kissM  his  own  —  he  was  alone. 

Her  steed  a  little  higher  soared,  and  then 

Dropt  hawkwise  to  the  earth. 

There  lies  a  den, 

Beyond  the  seeming  confines  of  the  space 
Made  for  the  soul  to  wander  in  and  trace 
Its  own  existence,  of  remotest  glooms. 
Dark  regions  are  around  it,  where  the  tombs 
Of  buried  griefs  the  spirit  sees,  but  scarce 
One  hour  doth  linger  weeping,  for  the  pierce 
Of  new-born  woe  it  feels  more  inly  smart : 
And  in  these  regions  many  a  venom'd  dart 
At  random  flies ;  they  are  the  proper  home 
Of  every  ill :  the  man  is  yet  to  come 
Who  hath  not  journeyed  in  this  native  hell. 
But  few  have  ever  felt  how  calm  and  well 
Sleep  may  be  had  in  that  deep  den  of  all. 
There  anguish  does  not  sting ;  nor  pleasure  pall : 
Woe-hurricanes  beat  ever  at  the  gate, 
Yet  all  is  still  within  and  desolate. 
Beset  with  painful  gusts,  within  ye  hear 
No  sound  so  loud  as  when  on  curtain'd  bier 
The  death-watch  tick  is  stifled.     Enter  none 
Who  strive  therefore :  on  the  sudden  it  is  won. 
Just  when  the  sufferer  begins  to  burn, 
Then  it  is  free  to  him ;  and  from  an  urn, 


BOOK  iv.  ENDYMION.  155 

Still  fed  by  melting  ice,  he  takes  a  draught  — 
Young  Semele  such  richness  never  quaft 
In  her  maternal  longing.     Happy  gloom! 
Dark  Paradise!  where  pale  becomes  the  bloom 
Of  health  by  due  ;  where  silence  dreariest 
Is  most  articulate ;  where  hopes  infest ; 
Where  those  eyes  are  the  brightest  far  that  keep 
Their  lids  shut  longest  in  a  dreamless  sleep. 
O  happy  spirit-home!     O  wondrous  soul! 
Pregnant  with  such  a  den  to  save  the  whole 
In  thine  own  depth.     Hail,  gentle  Carian! 
For,  never  since  thy  griefs  and  woes  began, 
Hast  thou  felt  so  content :  a  grievous  feud 
Hath  let  thee  to  this  Cave  of  Quietude. 
Aye,  his  lull'd  soul  was  there,  although  upborne 
With  dangerous  speed :  and  so  he  did  not  mourn 
Because  he  knew  not  whither  he  was  going. 
So  happy  was  he,  not  the  aerial  blowing 
Of  trumpets  at  clear  parley  from  the  east 
Could  rouse  from  that  fine  relish,  that  high  feast. 
They  stung  the  feather'd  horse :  with  fierce  alarm 
He  flapp'd  towards  the  sound.     Alas,  no  charm 
Could  lift  Endymion's  head,  or  he  had  view'd 
A  skyey  mask,  a  pinion1  d  multitude, — 
And  silvery  was  its  passing :  voices  sweet 
Warbling  the  while  as  if  to  lull  and  greet 
The  wanderer  in  his  path.     Thus  warbled  they, 
While  past  the  vision  went  in  bright  array. 

"  Who,  who  from  Dian's  feast  would  be  away? 
For  all  the  golden  bowers  of  the  day 
Are  empty  left  ?     Who,  who  away  would  be 
From  Cynthia's  wedding  and  festivity? 
Not  Hesperus  :  lo!  upon  his  silver  wings 
He  leans  away  for  highest  heaven  and  sings, 
Snapping  his  lucid  fingers  merrily!  — 
Ah,  Zephyrus!  art  here,  and  Flora  too! 
Ye  tender  bibbers  of  the  rain  and  dew, 
Young  playmates  of  the  rose  and  daffodil, 


156  ENDYMION.  BOOK  IV. 

Be  careful,  ere  ye  enter  in,  to  fill 

Your  baskets  high 

With  fennel  green,  and  balm,  and  golden  pines, 
Savory,  latter-mint,  and  columbines, 
Cool  parsley,  basil  sweet,  and  sunny  thyme ; 
Yea,  every  flower  and  leaf  of  every  clime, 
All  gather'd  in  the  dewy  morning :  hie 

Away!  fly,  fly!  — 

Crystalline  brother  of  the  belt  of  heaven, 
Aquarius!  to  whom  king  Jove  has  given 
Two  liquid  pulse  streams  'stead  of  feather'd  wings, 
Two  fan-like  fountains,  —  thine  illuminings 

For  Dian  play : 

Dissolve  the  frozen  purity  of  air ; 
Let  thy  white  shoulders  silvery  and  bare 
Shew  cold  through  watery  pinions  ;  make  more  bright 
The  Star-Queen's  crescent  on  her  marriage  night : 

Haste,  haste  away!  — 
Castor  has  tamed  the  planet  Lion,  see! 
And  of  the  Bear  has  Pollux  mastery  : 
A  third  is  in  the  race!  who  is  the  third, 
Speeding  away  swift  as  the  eagle  bird  ? 

The  ramping  Centaur! 

The  Lion's  mane's  on  end :  the  Bear  how  fierce! 
The  Centaur's  arrow  ready  seems  to  pierce 
Some  enemy :  far  forth  his  bow  is  bent 
Into  the  blue  of  heaven.     He'll  be  shent, 

Pale  unrelentor, 

When  he  shall  hear  the  wedding  lutes  a  playing.  — 
Andromeda!  sweet  woman!  why  delaying 
So  timidly  among  the  stars :  come  hither! 
Join  this  bright  throng,  and  nimbly  follow  whither 

They  all  are  going. 

Danae's  Son,  before  Jove  newly  bow'd, 
Has  wept  for  thee,  calling  to  Jove  aloud. 
Thee,  gentle  lady,  did  he  disenthral : 
Ye  shall  for  ever  live  and  love,  for  all 

Thy  tears  are  flowing.  — 
By  Daphne's  fright,  behold  Apollo!  —  " 


BOOK  iv.  END  YMION.  157 

More 

Endymion  heard  not :  down  his  steed  him  bore, 
Prone  to  the  green  head  of  a  misty  hill. 

His  first  touch  of  the  earth  went  nigh  to  kill. 
"  Alas! "  said  he,  "  were  I  but  always  borne 
Through  dangerous  winds,  but  had  my  footsteps  worn 
A  path  in  hell,  for  ever  would  I  bless 
Horrors  which  nourish  an  uneasiness 
For  my  own  sullen  conquering :  to  him 
Who  lives  beyond  earth's  boundary,  grief  is  dim. 
Sorrow  is  but  a  shadow  :  now  I  see 
The  grass  ;  I  feel  the  solid  ground  —  Ah,  me! 
It  is  thy  voice  —  divinest!     Where?  —  who?  who 
Left  thee  so  quiet  on  this  bed  of  dew? 
Behold  upon  this  happy  earth  we  are ; 
Let  us  ay  love  each  other ;  let  us  fare 
On  forest-fruits,  and  never,  never  go 
Among  the  abodes  of  mortals  here  below, 
Or  be  by  phantoms  duped.     O  destiny! 
Into  a  labyrinth  now  my  soul  would  fly, 
But  with  thy  beauty  will  I  deaden  it. 
Where  didst  thou  melt  to  ?     By  thee  will  I  sit 
For  ever :  let  our  fate  stop  here  —  a  kid 
I  on  this  spot  will  offer :  Pan  will  bid 
Us  live  in  peace,  in  love  and  peace  among 
His  forest  wildernesses.     I  have  clung 
To  nothing,  lov'd  a  nothing,  nothing  seen 
Or  felt  but  a  great  dream !     O  I  have  been 
Presumptuous  against  love,  against  the  sky, 
Against  all  elements,  against  the  tie 
Of  mortals  each  to  each,  against  the  blooms 
Of  flowers,  rush  of  rivers,  and  the  tombs 
Of  heroes  gone !     Against  his  proper  glory 
Has  my  own  soul  conspired :  so  my  story 
Will  I  to  children  utter,  and  repent. 
There  never  liv'd  a  mortal  man,  who  bent 
His  appetite  beyond  his  natural  sphere, 
But  starv'd  and  died      My  sweetest  Indian,  here, 


158  ENDYMION.  BOOK  iv. 

Here  will  I  kneel,  for  thou  redeemed  hast 

My  life  from  too  thin  breathing :  gone  and  past 

Are  cloudy  phantasms.     Caverns  lone,  farewell 

And  air  of  visions,  and  the  monstrous  swell 

Of  visionary  seas !     No,  never  more 

Shall  airy  voices  cheat  me  to  the  shore 

Of  tangled  wonder,  breathless  and  aghast. 

Adieu,  my  daintiest  Dream!  although  so  vast 

My  love  is  still  for  thee.     The  hour  may  come 

When  we  shall  meet  in  pure  elysium. 

On  earth  I  may  not  love  thee ;  and  therefore 

Doves  will  I  offer  up,  and  sweetest  store 

All  through  the  teeming  year :  so  thou  wilt  shine 

On  me,  and  on  this  damsel  fair  of  mine, 

And  bless  our  simple  lives.     My  Indian  bliss! 

My  river-lily  bud!  one  human  kiss! 

One  sigh  of  real  breath  —  one  gentle  squeeze, 

Warm  as  a  dove's  nest  among  summer  trees, 

And  warm  with  dew  at  ooze  from  living  blood ! 

Whither  didst  melt?     Ah,  what  of  that!  — all  good 

We'll  talk  about  —  no  more  of  dreaming.  —  Now, 

Where  shall  our  dwelling  be  ?     Under  the  brow 

Of  some  steep  mossy  hill,  where  ivy  dun 

Would  hide  us  up,  although  spring  leaves  were  none ; 

And  where  dark  yew  trees,  as  we  rustle  through, 

Will  drop  their  scarlet  berry  cups  of  dew  ? 

O  thou  wouldst  joy  to  live  in  such  a  place  ; 

Dusk  for  our  loves,  yet  light  enough  to  grace 

Those  gentle  limbs  on  mossy  bed  reclin'd : 

For  by  one  step  the  blue  sky  shouldst  thou  find, 

And  by  another,  in  deep  dell  below, 

See,  through  the  trees,  a  little  river  go 

All  in  its  mid-day  gold  and  glimmering. 

Honey  from  out  the  gnarled  hive  I'll  bring, 

And  apples,  wan  with  sweetness,  gather  thee,  — 

Cresses  that  grow  where  no  man  may  them  see, 

And  sorrel  untorn  by  the  dew-claw'd  stag : 

Pipes  will  I  fashion  of  the  syrinx  flag, 

That  thou  mayst  always  know  whither  I  roam. 


BOOK  iv.  ENDYMION.  159 

When  it  shall  please  thee  in  our  quiet  home 

To  listen  and  think  of  love.     Still  let  me  speak ; 

Still  let  me  dive  into  the  joy  I  seek,  — 

For  yet  the  past  doth  prison  me.     The  rill, 

Thou  haply  mayst  delight  in,  will  I  fill 

With  fairy  fishes  from  the  mountain  tarn, 

And  thou  shalt  feed  them  from  the  squirrel's  barn . 

Its  bottom  will  I  strew  with  amber  shells, 

And  pebbles  blue  from  deep  enchanted  wells. 

Its  sides  Til  plant  with  dew-sweet  eglantine, 

And  honeysuckles  full  of  clear  bee-wine. 

I  will  entice  this  crystal  rill  to  trace 

Love's  silver  name  upon  the  meadow's  face. 

I'll  kneel  to  Vesta,  for  a  flame  of  fire ; 

And  to  god  Phoebus,  for  a  golden  lyre ; 

To  Empress  Dian,  for  a  hunting  spear ; 

To  Vesper,  for  a  taper  silver-clear, 

That  I  may  see  thy  beauty  through  the  night ; 

To  Flora,  and  a  nightingale  shall  light 

Tame  on  thy  finger ;  to  the  River-gods, 

And  they  shall  bring  thee  taper  fishing-rods 

Of  gold,  and  lines  of  Naiads'  long  bright  tress. 

Heaven  shield  thee  for  thine  utter  loveliness! 

Thy  mossy  footstool  shall  the  altar  be 

'Fore  which  I'll  bend,  bending,  dear  love,  to  thee : 

Those  lips  shall  be  my  Delphos,  and  shall  speak 

Laws  to  my  footsteps,  color  to  my  cheek, 

Trembling  or  stedfastness  to  this  same  voice, 

And  of  three  sweetest  pleasurings  the  choice  : 

And  that  affectionate  light,  those  diamond  things, 

Those  eyes,   those  passions,   those    supreme    pearl 

springs, 

Shall  be  my  grief,  or  twinkle  me  to  pleasure. 
Say,  is  not  bliss  within  our  perfect  seisure  ? 
O  that  I  could  not  doubt?" 

The  mountaineer 

Thus  strove  by  fancies  vain  and  crude  to  clear 
His  briar'd  path  to  some  tranquillity. 


160  ENDYMION.  BOOK  iv. 

It  gave  bright  gladness  to  his  lady's  eye, 

And  yet  the  tears  she  wept  were  tears  of  sorrow ; 

Answering  thus,  just  as  the  golden  morrow 

Beam'd  upward  from  the  vallies  of  the  east : 

"  O  that  the  flutter  of  this  heart  had  ceas'd, 

Or  the  sweet  name  of  love  had  passM  away. 

Young  feather'd  tyrant !  by  a  swift  decay 

Wilt  thou  devote  this  body  to  the  earth  : 

And  I  do  think  that  at  my  very  birth 

I  lisp'd  thy  blooming  titles  inwardly ; 

For  at  the  first,  first  dawn  and  thought  of  thee. 

With  uplift  hands  I  blest  the  stars  of  heaven. 

Art  thou  not  cruel?     Ever  have  I  striven 

To  think  thee  kind,  but  ah,  it  will  not  do! 

When  yet  a  child,  I  heard  that  kisses  drew 

Favor  from  thee,  and  so  I  kisses  gave 

To  the  void  air,  bidding  them  find  out  love : 

But  when  I  came  to  feel  how  far  above 

All  fancy,  pride,  and  fickle  maidenhood, 

All  earthly  pleasure,  all  imagin'd  good, 

Was  the  warm  tremble  of  a  devout  kiss,  — 

Even  then,  that  moment,  at  the  thought  of  this. 

Fainting  I  fell  into  a  bed  of  flowers, 

And  languish'd  there  three  days.     Ye  milder  powers 

Am  I  not  cruelly  wrong'd?     Believe,  believe 

Me,  dear  Endymion,  were  I  to  weave 

With  my  own  fancies  garlands  of  sweet  life, 

Thou  shouldst  be  one  of  all.     Ah,  bitter  strife! 

I  may  not  be  thy  love  :  I  am  forbidden  — 

Indeed  I  am  —  thwarted,  affrighted,  chidden, 

By  things  I  trembled  at,  and  gorgon  wrath. 

Twice  hast  thou  ask'd  whither  I  went :  henceforth 

Ask  me  no  more!  I  may  not  utter  it, 

Nor  may  I  be  thy  love.     We  might  commit 

Ourselves  at  once  to  vengeance  ;  we  might  die  ; 

We  might  embrace  and  die :  voluptuous  thought! 

Enlarge  not  to  my  hunger,  or  I'm  caught 

In  trammels  of  perverse  deliciousness. 

No,  no.  that  shall  not  be  :  thee  will  I  bless, 

And  bid  a  long  adieu." 


BOOK  iv.  END  YM I  ON.  l6T 

The  Carian 

No  word  returned :  both  lovelorn,  silent,  wan, 
Into  the  vallies  green  together  went. 
Far  wandering,  they  were  perforce  content 
To  sit  beneath  a  fair  lone  beechen  tree ; 
Nor  at  each  other  gaz'd,  but  heavily 
Por'd  on  its  hazle  cirque  of  shedded  leaves. 

Endymion!  unhappy!  it  nigh  grieves 
Me  to  behold  thee  thus  in  last  extreme : 
Ensky'd  ere  this,  but  truly  that  I  deem 
Truth  the  best  music  in  a  first-born  song. 
Thy  lute-voic'd  brother  will  I  sing  ere  long, 
And  thou  shalt  aid  —  hast  thou  not  aided  me? 
Yes,  moonlight  Emperor!  felicity 
Has  been  thy  meed  for  many  thousand  years ; 
Yet  often  have  I,  on  the  brink  of  tears, 
MournM  as  if  yet  thou  wert  a  forester;  — 
Forgetting  the  old  tale. 

He  did  not  stir 

His  eyes  from  the  dead  leaves,  or  one  small  pulse 
Of  joy  he  might  have  felt.     The  spirit  culls 
Unfaded  amaranth,  when  wild  it  strays 
Through  the  old  garden-ground  of  boyish  days. 
A  little  onward  ran  the  very  stream 
By  which  he  took  his  first  soft  poppy  dream ; 
And  on  the  very  bark  'gainst  which  he  leant 
A  crescent  he  had  carv1d.  and  round  it  spent 
His  skill  in  little  stars.     The  teeming  tree 
Had  swollen  and  green'd  the  pious  charactery, 
But  not  ta'en  out.     Why,  there  was  not  a  slope 
Up  which  he  had  not  fear'd  the  antelope ; 
And  not  a  tree,  beneath  whose  rooty  shade 
He  had  not  with  his  tamed  leopards  play'd 
Nor  could  an  arrow  light,  or  javelin, 
Fly  in  the  air  where  hys  had  never  been  — 
And  yet  he  knew  it  not. 

O  treachery ! 
Why  does  his  lady  smile,  pleasing  her  eye 


1 62  ENDYMION.  BOOK  IV. 

With  all  his  sorrowing?     He  sees  her  not. 
But  who  so  stares  on  him  ?     His  sister  sure  ! 
Peona  of  the  woods!  —  Can  she  endure  — 
Impossible  —  how  dearly  they  embrace  ! 
His  lady  smiles  ;  delight  is  in  her  face ; 
It  is  no  treachery. 

"  Dear  brother  mine  ! 

Endymion,  weep  not  so!     Why  shouldst  thou  pine 
When  all  great  Latmos  so  exalt  wilt  be? 
Thank  the  great  gods,  and  look  not  bitterly ; 
And  speak  not  one  pale  word,  and  sigh  no  more. 
Sure  I  will  not  believe  thou  hast  such  store 
Of  grief,  to  last  thee  to  my  kiss  again. 
Thou  surely  canst  not  bear  a  mind  in  pain, 
Come  hand  in  hand  with  one  so  beautiful. 
Be  happy  both  of  you  !  for  I  will  pull 
The  flowers  of  autumn  for  your  coronals. 
Pan's  holy  priest  for  young  Endymion  calls ; 
And  when  he  is  restor'd,  thou,  fairest  dame, 
Shalt  be  our  queen.     Now,  is  it  not  a  shame 
To  see  ye  thus,  —  not  very,  very  sad  ? 
Perhaps  ye  are  too  happy  to  be  glad  : 
O  feel  as  if  it  were  a  common  day ; 
Free-voic'd  as  one  who  never  was  away. 
No  tongue  shall  ask,  whence  come  ye?  but  ye  shall 
Be  gods  of  your  own  rest  imperial. 
Not  even  I,  for  one  whole  month,  will  pry 
Into  the  hours  that  have  pass'd  us  by, 
Since  in  my  arbor  I  did  sing  to  thee. 
O  Hermes!  on  this  very  night  will  be 
A  hymning  up  to  Cynthia,  queen  of  light ; 
For  the  soothsayers  old  saw  yesternight 
Good  visions  in  the  air,  —  whence  will  befal, 
As  say  these  sages,  health  perpetual 
To  shepherds  and  their  flocks  ;  and  furthermore, 
In  Dian's  face  they  read  the  gentle  lore  : 
Therefore  for  her  these  vesper-carols  are. 
Our  friends  will  all  be  there  from  nigh  and  far. 


BOOK  iv.  END  YM ION.  163 

Many  upon  thy  death  have  ditties  made ; 

And  many,  even  now,  their  foreheads  shade 

With  cypress,  on  a  day  of  sacrifice. 

New  singing  for  our  maids  shalt  thou  devise, 

And  pluck  the  sorrow  from  our  huntsmen's  brows. 

Tell  me,  my  lady-queen,  how  to  espouse 

This  wayward  brother  to  his  rightful  joys! 

His  eyes  are  on  thee  bent,  as  thou  didst  poise 

His  fate  most  goddess-like.     Help  me,  I  pray, 

To  lure  —  Endymion,  dear  brother,  say 

What  ails  thee  ?  "     He  could  bear  no  more,  and  so 

Bent  his  soul  fiercely  like  a  spiritual  bow, 

And  twang'd  it  inwardly,  and  calmly  said : 

"  I  would  have  thee  my  only  friend,  sweet  maid! 

My  only  visitor!  not  ignorant  though, 

That  those  deceptions  which  for  pleasure  go 

'Mong  men,  are  pleasures  real  as  real  may  be : 

But  there  are  higher  ones  I  may  not  see, 

If  impiously  an  earthly  realm  I  take. 

Since  I  saw  thee,  I  have  been  wide  awake 

Night  after  night,  and  day  by  day,  until 

Of  the  empyrean  I  have  drunk  my  fill. 

Let  it  content  thee,  Sister,  seeing  me 

More  happy  than  betides  mortality. 

A  hermit  young,  I'll  live  in  mossy  cave, 

Where  thou  alone  shalt  come  to  me,  and  lave 

Thy  spirit  in  the  wonders  I  shall  tell. 

Through  me  the  shepherd  realm  shall  prosper  well ; 

For  to  thy  tongue  will  I  all  health  confide. 

And,  for  my  sake,  let  this  young  maid  abide 

With  thee  as  a  dear  sister.     Thou  alone, 

Peona,  mayst  return  to  me.     I  own 

This  may  sound  strangely :  but  when,  dearest  girl, 

Thou  seest  it  for  my  happiness,  no  pearl 

Will  trespass  down  those  cheeks.     Companion  fair! 

Wilt  be  content  to  dwell  with  her,  to  share 

This  sister's  love  with  me?"     Like  one  resign'd 

And  bent  by  circumstance,  and  thereby  blind 

In  self-commitment,  thus  that  meek  unknown : 


164  ENDYMION.  BOOK  iv. 

"  Ay*.,  but  a  buzzing  by  my  ears  has  flown, 

Of  jubilee  to  Dian  :  —  truth  I  heard! 

Well  then,  I  see  there  is  no  little  bird, 

Tender  soever,  but  is  Jove's  own  care. 

Long  have  I  sought  for  rest,  and,  unaware, 

Behold  I  find  it!  so  exalted  too! 

So  after  my  own  heart!  I  knew,  I  knew 

There  was  a  place  untenanted  in  it : 

In  that  same  void  white  Chastity  shall  sit. 

And  monitor  me  nightly  to  lone  slumber. 

With  sanest  lips  I  vow  me  to  the  number 

Of  Dian's  sisterhood  ;  and,  kind  lady, 

With  thy  good  help,  this  very  night  shall  see 

My  future  days  to  her  fane  consecrate." 

As  feels  a  dreamer  what  doth  most  create 
His  own  particular  fright,  so  these  three  felt : 
Or  like  one  who,  in  after  ages,  knelt 
To  Lucifer  or  Baal,  when  he'd  pine 
After  a  little  sleep  :  or  when  in  mine 
Far  under-ground,  a  sleeper  meets  his  friends 
Who  know  him  not.     Each  diligently  bends 
Towards  common  thoughts  and  things  for  very  fear ; 
Striving  their  ghastly  malady  to  cheer, 
By  thinking  it  a  thing  of  yes  and  no, 
That  housewives  talk  of.     But  the  spirit-blow 
Was  struck,  and  all  were  dreamers.     At  the  last 
Endymion  said  :  "  Are  not  our  fates  all  cast  ? 
Why  stand  we  here?     Adieu,  ye  tender  pair! 
Adieu!"    Whereat  those  maidens,  with  wild  stare, 
Walk'd  dizzily  away.     Pained  and  hot 
His  eyes  went  after  them,  until  they  got 
Near  to  a  cypress  grove,  whose  deadly  maw, 
In  one  swift  moment,  would  what  then  he  saw 
Engulph  for  ever.     "  Stay! "  he  cried,  "ah,  stay! 
Turn,  damsels!  hist!  one  word  I  have  to  say. 
Sweet  Indian,  I  would  see  thee  once  again. 
It  is  a  thing  I  dote  on  :  so  I'd  fain, 
Peona.  ye  should  hand  in  hand  repair 


BOOK  iv.  ENDYMION.  165 

Into  those  holy  groves,  that  silent  arc 

Behind  great  Dian's  temple.     I'll  be  yon, 

At  vespers  earliest  twinkle  —  they  are  gone  — 

But  once,  once,  once  again  —  "     At  this  he  press'd 

His  hands  against  his  face,  and  then  did  rest 

His  head  upon  a  mossy  hillock  green, 

And  so  remain'd  as  he  a  corpse  had  been 

All  the  long  day ;  save  when  he  scantly  lifted 

His  eyes  abroad,  to  see  how  shadows  shifted 

With  the  slow  move  of  time,  —  sluggish  and  weary 

Until  the  poplar  tops,  in  journey  dreary, 

Had  reach'd  the  river's  brim.     Then  up  he  rose, 

And,  slowly  as  that  very  river  flows, 

Walk'd  towards  the  temple  grove  with  this  lament : 

"  Why  such  a  golden  eve  ?     The  breeze  is  sent 

Careful  and  soft,  that  not  a  leaf  may  fall 

Before  the  serene  father  of  them  all 

Bows  down  his  summer  head  below  the  west. 

Now  am  I  of  breath,  speech,  and  speed  possest, 

But  at  the  setting  I  must  bid  adieu 

To  her  for  the  last  time.     Night  will  strew 

On  the  damp  grass  myriads  of  lingering  leaves, 

And  with  them  shall  I  die ;  nor  much  it  grieves 

To  die,  when  summer  dies  on  the  cold  sward. 

Why,  1  have  been  a  butterfly,  a  lord 

Of  flowers,  garlands,  love-knots,  silly  posies, 

Groves,  meadows,  melodies,  and  arbor  roses  ; 

My  kingdom's  at  its  death,  and  just  it  is 

That  I  should  die  with  it :  so  in  all  this 

We  miscal  grief,  bale,  sorrow,  heartbreak,  woe, 

What  is  there  to  plain  of?     By  Titan's  foe 

I  am  but  rightly  serv'd."     So  saying,  he 

Tripp'd  lightly  on,  in  sort  of  deathful  glee ; 

Laughing  at  the  clear  stream  and  setting  sun, 

As  though  they  jests  had  been :  nor  had  he  done 

His  laugh  at  nature's  holy  countenance, 

Until  that  grove  appear'd,  as  if  perchance, 

And  then  his  tongue  with  sober  seemlihed 

Gave  utterance  as  he  entered  :  "  Ha! "  I  said, 


1 66  ENDYMION.  BOOK 

"  King  of  the  butterflies  ;  but  by  this  gloom, 

And  by  old  Rhadamanthus'  tongue  of  doom, 

This  dusk  religion,  pomp  of  solitude, 

And  the  Promethean  clay  by  thief  endued, 

By  old  Saturnus'  forelock,  by  his  head 

Shook  with  eternal  palsy,  I  did  wed 

Myself  to  things  of  light  from  infancy ; 

And  thus  to  be  cast  out,  thus  lorn  to  die, 

Is  sure  enough  to  make  a  mortal  man 

Grow  impious."     So  he  inwardly  began 

On  things  for  which  no  wording  can  be  found ; 

Deeper  and  deeper  sinking,  until  drown'd 

Beyond  the  reach  of  music :  for  the  choir 

Of  Cynthia  he  heard  not,  though  rough  briar 

Nor  muffling  thicket  interposed  to  dull 

The  vesper  hymn,  far  swollen,  soft  and  full, 

Through  the  dark  pillars  of  those  sylvan  aisles. 

He  saw  not  the  two  maidens,  nor  their  smiles, 

Wan  as  primroses  gather'd  at  midnight 

By  chilly  finger'd  spring.     "  Unhappy  wight! 

Endymion!"  said  Peona,  "we  are  here! 

What  wouldst  thou  ere  we  all  are  laid  on  bier?  " 

Then  he  embrac'd  her,  and  his  lady's  hand 

Press'd,  saying :  "  Sister,  I  would  have  command, 

If  it  were  heaven's  will,  on  our  sad  fate." 

At  which  that  dark-eyed  stranger  stood  elate 

And  said,  in  a  new  voice,  but  sweet  as  love, 

To  Endymion's  amaze  :  "  By  Cupid's  dove, 

And  so  thou  shalt !  and  by  the  lily  truth 

Of  my  own  breast  thou  shalt,  beloved  youth !  " 

And  as  she  spake,  into  her  face  there  came 

Light,  as  reflected  from  a  silver  flame  : 

Her  long  black  hair  swell'd  ampler,  in  display 

Full  golden  ;  in  her  eyes  a  brighter  day 

Dawn'd  blue  and  full  of  love.     Aye,  he  beheld 

Phoebe,  his  passion!  joyous  she  upheld 

Her  lucid  bow,  continuing  thus ;  "  Drear,  drear 

Has  our  delaying  been ;  but  foolish  fear 

Withheld  me  first ;  and  then  decrees  of  fate ; 


BOOK  iv.  ENDYMION.  167 

And  then  'twas  fit  that  from  this  mortal  state 

Thou  shouldst,  my  love,  by  some  unlook'd  for  change 

Be  spiritualized.     Peona,  we  shall  range 

These  forests,  and  to  thee  they  safe  shall  be 

As  was  thy  cradle ;  hither  shalt  thou  flee 

To  meet  us  many  a  time."     Next  Cynthia  bright 

Peona  kiss'd,  and  blessM  with  fair  good  night : 

Her  brother  kiss'd  her  too,  and  knelt  adown 

Before  his  goddess,  in  a  blissful  swoon. 

She  gave  her  fair  hands  to  him,  and  behold, 

Before  three  swiftest  kisses  he  had  told, 

They  vanished  far  away !  —  Peona  went 

Home  through  the  gloomy  wood  in  wonderment 


THE  END. 


I'PtTBLISHED    1820] 


LAMIA, 

ISABELLA, 

THE    EVE    OF    ST.   AGNES, 

AND 

OTHER    POEMS. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


IF  any  apology  be  thought  necessary  for  the  appearance 
of  the  unfinished  poem  of  HYPERION,  the  publishers  beg 
to  state  that  they  alone  are  responsible,  as  it  was  printed 
at  their  particular  request,  and  contrary  to  the  wish  of  the 
author.  The  poem  was  intended  to  have  been  of  equal 
length  with  ENDYMION,  but  the  reception  given  to  that 
work  discouraged  the  author  from  proceeding. 

FLEET  STREET,  June  26,  1820. 


LAMIA. 


PART  I. 

UPON  a  time,  before  the  faery  broods 
Drove  Nymph  and  Satyr  from  the  prosperous  woods, 
Before  King  Oberon's  bright  diadem, 
Sceptre,  and  mantle,  clasp'd  with  dewy  gem,  . 
Frighted  away  the  Dryads  and  the  Fauns 
From  rushes  green,  and  brakes,  and  cowslip'd  lawns, 
The  ever-smitten  Hermes  empty  left 
His  golden  throne,  bent  warm  on  amorous  theft : 
From  high  Olympus  had  he  stolen  light, 
On  this  side  of  Jove's  clouds,  to  escape  the  sight 
Of  his  great  summoner,  and  made  retreat 
Into  a  forest  on  the  shores  of  Crete. 
For  somewhere  in  that  sacred  island  dwelt 
A  nymph,  to  whom  all  hoofed  Satyrs  knelt ; 
At  whose  white  feet  the  languid  Tritons  poured 
Pearls,  while  on  land  they  wither'd  and  adored. 
Fast  by  the  springs  where  she  to  bathe  was  wont, 
And  in  those  meads  where  sometime  she  might  haunt, 
Were  strewn  rich  gifts,  unknown  to  any  Muse, 
Though  Fancy's  casket  were  unlock'd  to  choose. 
Ah,  what  a  world  of  love  was  at  her  feet! 
So  Hermes  thought,  and  a  celestial  heat 
Burnt  from  his  winged  heels  to  either  ear, 
That  from  a  whiteness,  as  the  lily  clear, 
Blush'd  into  roses  'mid  his  golden  hair, 
Fallen  in  jealous  curls  about  his  shoulders  bare. 

171 


172  LAMIA.  PARTI. 

From  vale  to  vale,  from  wood  to  wood,  he  flew, 

Breathing  upon  the  flowers  his  passion  new, 

And  wound  with  many  a  river  to  its  head, 

To  find  where  this  sweet  nymph  prepar'd  her  secret 

bed: 

In  vain  ;  the  sweet  nymph  might  nowhere  be  found, 
And  so  he  rested,  on  the  lonely  ground, 
Pensive,  and  full  of  painful  jealousies 
Of  the  Wood-Gods,  and  even  the  very  trees. 
There  as  he  stood,  he  heard  a  mournful  voice, 
Such  as  once  heard,  in  gentle  heart,  destroys 
All  pain  but  pity  :  thus  the  lone  voice  spake  : 
"When  from  this  wreathed  tomb  shall  I  awake! 
"  When  move  in  a  sweet  body  fit  for  life, 
"  And  love,  and  pleasure,  and  the  ruddy  strife 
"  Of  hearts  and  lips !     Ah,  miserable  me ! " 
The  God,  dove-footed,  glided  silently 
Round  bush  and  tree,  soft-brushing,  in  his  speed, 
The  taller  grasses  and  full-flowering  weed, 
Until  he  found  a  palpitating  snake, 
Bright,  and  cirque-couchant  in  a  dusky  brake. 

She  was  a  gordian  shape  of  dazzling  hue, 
Vermilion-spotted,  golden,  green,  and  blue ; 
Striped  like  a  zebra,  freckled  like  a  pard, 
Eyed  like  a  peacock,  and  all  crimson  barr'd ; 
And  full  of  silver  moons,  that,  as  she  breathed, 
Dissolved,  or  brighter  shone,  or  intenvreathed 
Their  lustres  with  the  gloomier  tapestries  — 
So  rainbow-sided,  touch'd  with  miseries. 
She  seem'd,  at  once,  some  penanced  lady  elf, 
Some  demon's  mistress,  or  the  demon's  self. 
Upon  her  crest  she  wore  a  wannish  fire 
Sprinkled  with  stars,  like  Ariadne's  tiar : 
Her  head  was  serpent,  but  ah,  bitter-sweet! 
She  had  a  woman's  mouth  with  all  its  pearls  complete  ; 
And  for  her  eyes  :  what  could  such  eyes  do  there 
But  weep,  and  weep,  that  they  were  born  so  fair? 
As  Proserpine  still  weeps  for  her  Sicilian  air. 


PART  i.  LAMIA.  1 73 

Her  throat  was  serpent,  but  the  words  she  spake 
Came,  as  through  bubbling  honey,  for  Love's  sake, 
And  thus ;  while  Hermes  on  his  pinions  lay, 
Like  a  stoop'd  falcon  ere  he  takes  his  prey. 

"  Fair    Hermes,   crown'd  with   feathers,  fluttering 

light, 

"  I  had  a  splendid  dream  of  thee  last  night : 
"  I  saw  thee  sitting,  on  a  throne  of  gold, 
"  Among  the  Gods,  upon  Olympus  old, 
"  The  only  sad  one ;  for  thou  didst  not  hear 
"  The  soft,  lute-finger'd  Muses  chaunting  clear, 
"  Nor  even  Apollo  when  he  sang  alone, 
"  Deaf  to  his  throbbing  throat's  long,  long  melodious 

moan. 

"  I  dreamt  I  saw  thee,  robed  in  purple  flakes, 
"  Break  amorous   through   the  clouds,  as   morning 

breaks, 

"  And,  swiftly  as  a  bright  Phoebean  dart, 
"  Strike  for  the  Cretan  isle  ;  and  here  thou  art! 
"  Too  gentle  Hermes,  hast  thou  found  the  maid?  " 
Whereat  the  star  of  Lethe  not  delay'd 
His  rosy  eloquence,  and  thus  inquired : 
"  Thou  smooth-lipp'd  serpent,  surely  high  inspired! 
"  Thou  beauteous  wreath,  with  melancholy  eyes, 
"  Possess  whatever  bliss  thou  canst  devise, 
"  Telling  me  only  where  my  nymph  is  fled,  — 
"Where   she  doth  breathe!"   "Bright  planet,  thou 

hast  said," 

Return'd  the  snake,  "but  seal  with  oaths,  fair  God! : 
"  I  swear,"  said  Hermes,  "  by  my  serpent  rod, 
"  And  by  thine  eyes,  and  by  thy  starry  crown! " 
Light  flew  his  earnest  words,  among  the  blossoms 

blown. 

Then  thus  again  the  brilliance  feminine : 
"  Too  frail  of  heart!  for  this  lost  nymph  of  thine, 
"  Free  as  the  air,  invisibly,  she  strays 
"  About  these  thornless  wilds ;  her  pleasant  days 
"  She  tastes  unseen  ;  unseen  her  nimble  feet 


1 74  LAMIA.  PART  I. 

"  Leave  traces  in  the  grass  and  flowers  sweet ; 
"  From  weary  tendrils,  and  bow'd  branches  green, 
"  She  plucks  the  fruit  unseen,  she  bathes  unseen : 
"  And  by  my  power  is  her  beauty  veil'd 
"  To  keep  it  unaffronted,  unassail'd 
"  By  the  love-glances  of  unlovely  eyes, 
"  Of  Satyrs,  Fauns,  and  blear 'd  Silenus'  sighs. 
"  Pale  grew  her  immortality,  for  woe 
"  Of  all  these  lovers,  and  she  grieved  so 
'  I  took  compassion  on  her,  bade  her  steep 
'  Her  hair  in  weird  syrops,  that  would  keep 
'  Her  loveliness  invisible,  yet  free 
'  To  wander  as  she  loves,  in  liberty. 
'  Thou  shalt  behold  her.  Hermes,  thou  alone, 
'  If  thou  wilt,  as  thou  swearest,  grant  my  boon! " 
Then,  once  again,  the  charmed  God  began 
An  oath,  and  through  the  serpent's  ears  it  ran 
Warm,  tremulous,  devout,  psalterian. 
Ravish  d,  she  lifted  her  Circean  head, 
Blush'd  a  live  damask,  and  swift-lisping  said, 
"  I  was  a  woman,  let  me  have  once  more 
"  A  woman's  shape,  and  charming  as  before. 
"  I  love  a  youth  of  Corinth  —  O  the  bliss ! 
"Give  me  my  woman's  form,  and  place   me  where 

he  is. 

"  Stoop,  Hermes,  let  me  breathe  upon  thy  brow, 
"  And  thou  shalt  see  thy  sweet  nymph  even  now." 
The  God  on  half-shut  feathers  sank  serene, 
She  breath'd  upon  his  eyes,  and  swift  was  seen 
Of  both  the  guarded  nymph  near-smiling  on  the  green, 
It  was  no  dream  ;  or  say  a  dream  it  was, 
Real  are  the  dreams  of  Gods,  and  smoothly  pass 
Their  pleasures  in  a  long  immortal  dream. 
One  warm,  flush'd  moment,  hovering,  it  might  seem 
Dash'd  by  the  wood-nymph's  beauty,  so  he  burn'd ; 
Then,  lighting  on  the  printless  verdure,  turn'd 
To  the  swoon'd  serpent,  and  with  languid  arm, 
Delicate,  put  to  proof  the  lythe  Caducean  charm. 
So  done,  upon  the  nymph  his  eyes  he  bent, 


PARTI.  LAMIA.  175 

Full  of  adoring  tears  and  blandishment, 

And  towards  her  stept :  she,  like  a  moon  in  -wane, 

Faded  before  him,  cower'd,  nor  could  restrain 

Her  fearful  sobs,  self-folding  like  a  flower 

That  faints  into  itself  at  evening  hour : 

But  the  God  fostering  her  chilled  hand, 

She  felt  the  warmth,  her  eyelids  open'd  bland, 

And,  like  new  flowers  at  morning  song  of  bees, 

BloomM,  and  gave  up  her  honey  to  the  lees. 

Into  the  green-recessed  woods  they  flew; 

Nor  grew  they  pale,  as  mortal  lovers  do. 

Left  to  herself,  the  serpent  now  began 
To  change ;  her  elfin  blood  in  madness  ran, 
Her  mouth  foam'd,  and  the  grass,  therewith  besprent, 
Withered  at  dew  so  sweet  and  virulent ; 
Her  eyes  in  torture  fix'd,  and  anguish  drear, 
Hot,  glaz'd,  and  wide,  with  lid-lashes  all  sear, 
Flash'd  phosphor  and  sharp  sparks,  without  one  cool- 
ing tear. 

The  colors  all  inflam'd  throughout  her  train, 
She  writhed  about,  convuls'd  with  scarlet  pain : 
A  deep  volcanian  yellow  took  the  place 
Of  all  her  milder-mooned  body's  grace ; 
And,  as  the  lava  ravishes  the  mead, 
Spoilt  all  her  silver  mail,  and  golden  brede ; 
Made  gloom  of  all  her  frecklings,  streaks  and  bars, 
Eclipsed  her  crescents,  and  lick'd  up  her  stars : 
So  that,  in  moments  few,  she  was  undrest 
Of  all  her  sapphires,  greens,  and  amethyst, 
And  rubious-argent :  of  all  these  bereft, 
Nothing  but  pain  and  ugliness  were  left. 
Still  shone  her  crown  ;  that  vanish'd,  also  she 
Melted  and  disappeared  as  suddenly ; 
And  in  the  air,  her  new  voice  luting  soft, 
Cried,  "  Lycius!  gentle  Lycius !"  —  Borne  aloft 
With  the  bright  mists  about  the  mountains  hoar 
These  words  dissolved :  Crete's  forests  heard  no  more. 


1 76  LAMIA.  PART  I. 

Whither  fled  Lamia,  now  a  lady  bright, 
A  full-born  beauty  new  and  exquisite? 
She  fled  into  that  valley  they  pass  o'er 
Who  go  to  Corinth  from  Cenchreas'  shore ; 
And  rested  at  the  foot  of  those  wild  hills, 
The  rugged  founts  of  the  Peraean  rills, 
And  of  that  other  ridge  whose  barren  back 
Stretches,  with  all  its  mist  and  cloudy  rack, 
South-westward  to  Cleone.     There  she  stood 
About  a  young  bird's  flutter  from  a  wood, 
Fair,  on  a  sloping  green  of  mossy  tread, 
By  a  clear  pool,  wherein  she  passioned 
To  see  herself  escap'd  from  so  sore  ills, 
While  her  robes  flaunted  with  the  daffodils. 

Ah,  happy  Lycius !  —  for  she  was  a  maid 
.More  beautiful  than  ever  twisted  braid, 
Or  sigh'd,  or  blush'd,  or  on  spring-flowered  lea 
Spread  a  green  kirtle  to  the  minstrelsy : 
A  virgin  purest  lipp'd,  yet  in  the  lore 
Of  love  deep  learned  to  the  red  heart's  core : 
Not  one  hour  old.  yet  of  sciential  brain 
To  unperplex  bliss  from  its  neighbor  pain  ; 
Define  their  pettish  limits,  and  estrange 
Their  points  of  contact,  and  swift  counterchange  ; 
Intrigue  with  the  specious  chaos,  and  dispart 
Its  most  ambiguous  atoms  with  sure  art ; 
As  though  in  Cupid's  college  she  had  spent 
Sweet  days  a  lovely  graduate,  still  unshent, 
And  kept  his  rosy  terms  in  idle  languishment. 

Why  this  fair  creature  chose  so  fairily 
By  the  wayside  to  linger,  we  shall  see ; 
But  first  'tis  fit  to  tell  how  she  could  muse 
And  dream,  when  in  the  serpent  prison-house, 
Of  all  she  list,  strange  or  magnificent : 
How,  ever,  where  she  will'd,  her  spirit  went ; 
Whether  to  faint  Elysium,  or  where 
Down  through  tress-lifting  waves  the  Nereids  fair 


PARTI.  LAMIA.  177 

Wind  into  Thetis'  bower  by  many  a  pearly  stair ; 

Or  where  God  Bacchus  drains  his  cups  divine, 

Stretch'd  out,  at  ease,  beneath  a  glutinous  pine ; 

Or  where  in  Pluto's  gardens  palatine 

Mulciber's  columns  gleam  in  far  piazzian  line. 

And  sometimes  into  cities  she  would  send 

Her  dream,  with  feast  and  rioting  to  blend ; 

And  once,  while  among  mortals  dreaming  thus, 

She  saw  the  young  Corinthian  Lycius 

Charioting  foremost  in  the  envious  race, 

Like  a  young  Jove  with  calm  uneager  face, 

And  fell  into  a  swooning  love  of  him. 

Now  on  the  moth-time  of  that  evening  dim 

He  would  return  that  way,  as  well  she  knew, 

To  Corinth  from  the  shore ;  for  freshly  blew 

The  eastern  soft  wind,  and  his  galley  now 

Grated  the  quaystones  with  her  brazen  prow 

In  port  Cenchreas.  from  Egina  isle 

Fresh  anchor'd ;  whither  he  had  been  awhile 

To  sacrifice  to  Jove,  whose  temple  there 

Waits  with  high  marble  doors  for  blood  and  incense 

rare. 

Jove  heard  his  vows,  and  better'd  his  desire ; 
For  by  some  freakful  chance  he  made  retire 
From  his  companions,  and  set  forth  to  walk, 
Perhaps  grown  wearied  of  their  Corinth  talk : 
Over  the  solitary  hills  he  fared, 
Thoughtless  at  first,  but  ere  eve's  star  appeared 
His  phantasy  was  lost,  where  reason  fades, 
In  the  calm'd  twilight  of  Platonic  shades. 
Lamia  beheld  him  coming,  near,  more  near — 
Close  to  her  passing,  in  indifference  drear, 
His  silent  sandals  swept  the  mossy  green ; 
So  neighbor'd  to  him,  and  yet  so  unseen 
She  stood  :  he  pass'd,  shut  up  in  mysteries, 
His  mind  wrapp'd  like  his  mantle,  while  her  eyes 
Follow'd  his  steps,  and  her  neck  regal  white 
Turn'd  —  syllabling  thus.  "  Ah,  Lycius  bright, 
"  And  will  you  leave  me  on  the  hills  alone? 


1 78  LAMIA.  PART  I. 

"  Lycius,  look  back!  and  be  some  pity  shown. 'v 

He  did ;  not  with  cold  wonder  fearingly, 

But  Orpheus-like  at  an  Eurydice ; 

For  so  delicious  were  the  words  she  sung, 

It  seem'd  he  had  lov'd  them  a  whole  summer  long : 

And  soon  his  eyes  had  drunk  her  beauty  up, 

Leaving  no  drop  in  the  bewildering  cup, 

And  still  the  cup  was  full,  —  while  he,  afraid 

Lest  she  should  vanish  ere  his  lip  had  paid 

Due  adoration,  thus  began  to  adore ; 

Her  soft  look  growing  coy,  she  saw  his  chain  so 

sure  : 

"Leave  thee  alone!     Look  back!     Ah,  Goddess,  see 
"  Whether  my  eyes  can  ever  turn  from  thee ! 
"  For  pity  do  not  this  sad  heart  belie  — 
'  Even  as  thou  vanishest  so  I  shall  die. 
'  Stay!  though  a  Naiad  of  the  rivers,  stay! 
i  To  thy  far  wishes  will  thy  streams  obey : 
'  Stay !  though  the  greenest  woods  be  thy  domain, 
'  Alone  they  can  drink  up  the  morning  rain  : 
"  Though  a  descended  Pleiad,  will  not  one 
"  Of  thine  harmonious  sisters  keep  in  tune 
"  Thy  spheres,  and  as  thy  silver  proxy  shine  ? 
"  So  sweetly  to  these  ravish'd  ears  of  mine 
"  Came  thy  sweet  greeting,  that  if  thou  shouldst  fade 
"  Thy  memory  will  waste  me  to  a  shade  :  — 
"  For  pity  do  not  melt ! "  —  "  If  I  should  stay," 
Said  Lamia,  "  here,  upon  this  floor  of  clay, 
"  And  pain  my  steps  upon  these  flowers  too  rough, 
u  What  canst  thou  say  or  do  of  charm  enough 
"  To  dull  the  nice  remembrance  of  my  home? 
"  Thou  canst  not  ask  me  with  thee  here  to  roam 
"  Over  these  hills  and  vales,  where  no  joy  is,  — 
'  Empty  of  immortality  and  bliss ! 
'  Thou  art  a  scholar,  Lycius,  and  must  know 
'  That  finer  spirits  cannot  breathe  below 
'  In  human  climes,  and  live  :  Alas!  poor  youth, 
'  What  taste  of  purer  air  hast  thou  to  soothe 
"  My  essence  ?    What  serener  palaces, 


PART  I.  LAMIA.  1 79 

"  Where  I  may  all  my  many  senses  please, 
"And  by  mysterious  sleights  a  hundred  thirsts  ap- 
pease ? 

"  It  cannot  be  —  Adieu ! "     So  said,  she  rose 
Tiptoe  with  white  arms  spread.     He,  sick  to  lose 
The  amorous  promise  of  her  lone  complain, 
Swoon'd,  murmuring  of  love,  and  pale  with  pain. 
The  cruel  lady,  without  any  show 
Of  sorrow  for  her  tender  favorite's  woe, 
But  rather,  if  her  eyes  could  brighter  be, 
With  brighter  eyes  and  slow  amenity, 
Put  her  new  lips  to  his,  and  gave  afresh 
The  life  she  had  so  tangled  in  her  mesh  : 
And  as  he  from  one  trance  was  wakening 
Into  another,  she  began  to  sing, 
Happy  in  beauty,  life,  and  love,  and  every  thing, 
A  song  of  love,  too  sweet  for  earthly  lyres, 
While,-  like  held  breath,  the  stars  drew  in  their  pant 

ing  fires. 

And  then  she  whisper'd  in  such  trembling  tone, 
As  those  who,  safe  together  met  alone 
For  the  first  time  through  many  anguish'd  days, 
Use  other  speech  than  looks ;  bidding  him  raise 
His  drooping  head,  and  clear  his  soul  of  doubt, 
For  that  she  was  a  woman,  and  without 
Any  more  subtle  fluid  in  her  veins 
Than  throbbing  blood,  and  that  the  self-same  pains 
Inhabited  her  frail-strung  heart  as  his. 
And  next  she  wonder1  d  how  his  eyes  could  miss 
Her  face  so  long  in  Corinth,  where,  she  said, 
She  dwelt  but  half  retir'd,  and  there  had  led 
Days  happy  as  the  gold  coin  could  invent 
Without  the  aid  of  love;  yet  in  content 
Till  she  saw  him,  as  once  she  pass'd  him  by, 
Where  'gainst  a  column  he  leant  thoughtfully 
At  Venus'  temple  porch,  'mid  baskets  heap'd 
Of  amorous  herbs  and  flowers,  newly  reap'd 
Late  on  that  eve,  as  'twas  the  night  before 
The  Adonian  feast ;  whereof  she  saw  no  more, 


l8o  LAMIA.  PARTI. 

But   wept   alone   those   days,  for  why   should    she 

adore  ? 

Lycius  from  death  awoke  into  amaze, 
To  see  her  still,  and  singing  so  sweet  lays ; 
Then  from  amaze  into  delight  he  fell 
To  hear  her  whisper  woman's  lore  so  well ; 
And  every  word  she  spake  entic'd  him  on 
To  unperplex'd  delight  and  pleasure  known. 
Let  the  mad  poets  say  whate'er  they  please 
Of  the  sweets  of  Fairies,  Peris,  Goddesses, 
There  is  not  such  a  treat  among  them  all, 
Haunters  of  cavern,  lake,  and  waterfall, 
As  a  real  woman,  lineal  indeed 
From  Pyrrha's  pebbles  or  old  Adam's  seed. 
Thus  gentle  Lamia  judg'd,  and  judg'd  aright, 
That  Lycius  could  not  love  in  half  a  fright, 
So  threw  the  goddess  off,  and  won  his  heart 
More  pleasantly  by  playing  woman's  part, 
With  no  more  awe  than  what  her  beauty  gave, 
That,  while  it  smote,  still  guaranteed  to  save. 
Lycius  to  all  made  eloquent  reply, 
Marrying  to  every  word  a  twinborn  sigh  ; 
And  last,  pointing  to  Corinth,  ask'd  her  sweet, 
If  'twas  too  far  that  night  for  her  soft  feet. 
The  way  was  short,  for  Lamia's  eagerness 
Made,  by  a  spell,  the  triple  league  decrease 
To  a  few  paces  ;  not  at  all  surmised 
By  blinded  Lycius,  so  in  her  comprized. 
They  pass'd  the  city  gates,  he  knew  not  how, 
So  noiseless,  and  he  never  thought  to  know. 

As  men  talk  in  a  dream,  so  Corinth  all, 
Throughout  her  palaces  imperial, 
And  all  her  populous  streets  and  temples  lewd, 
Mutter'd,  like  tempest  in  the  distance  brew'd, 
To  the  wide-spreaded  night  above  her  towers. 
Men,  women,  rich  and  poor,  in  the  cool  hours, 
Shuffled  their  sandals  o'er  the  pavement  white, 


PARTI.  LAMIA.  18 1 

Companion'd  or  alone ;  while  many  a  light 
Flared,  here  and  there,  from  wealthy  festivals, 
And  threw  their  moving  shadows  on  the  walls, 
Or  found  them  cluster'd  in  the  corniced  shade 
Of  some  arch'd  temple  door,  or  dusky  colonnade. 

Muffling  his  face,  of  greeting  friends  in  fear, 
Her  fingers  he  press'd  hard,  as  one  came  near 
With  cuiTd  gray  beard,  sharp  eyes,  and  smooth  bald 

crown, 

Slow-stepp'd,  and  robed  in  philosophic  gown : 
Lycius  shrank  closer,  as  they  met  and  past, 
Into  his  mantle,  adding  wings  to  haste, 
While  hurried  Lamia  trembled :  "  Ah,"  said  he, 
'Why  do  you  shudder,  love,  so  ruefully? 
'  Why  does  your  tender  palm  dissolve  in  dew  ? "  — 
'  Pm  wearied,"  said  fair  Lamia :  "  tell  me  who 
'  Is  that  old  man  ?     I  cannot  bring  to  mind 
'  His  features  :  —  Lycius !  wherefore  did  you  blind 
'  Yourself  from  his  quick  eyes  ?  "     Lycius  replied, 
'  'Tis  Apollonius  sage,  my  trusty  guide 
'  And  good  instructor ;  but  to-night  he  seems 
'  The  ghost  of  folly  haunting  my  sweet  dreams." 

While  yet  he  spake  they  had  arrived  before 
A  pillar'd  porch,  with  lofty  portal  door, 
Where  hung  a  silver  lamp,  whose  phosphor  glow 
Reflected  in  the  slabbed  steps  below, 
Mild  as  a  star  in  water ;  for  so  new, 
And  so  unsullied  was  the  marble  hue, 
So  through  the  crystal  polish,  liquid  fine, 
Ran  the  dark  veins,  that  none  but  feet  divine 
Could  e'er  have  touch'd  there.     Sounds  jEolian 
Breath'd  from  the  hinges,  as  the  ample  span 
Of  the  wide  doors  disclos'd  a  place  unknown 
Some  time  to  any,  but  those  two  alone, 
And  a  few  Persian  mutes,  who  that  same  year 
Were  seen  about  the  markets  :  none  knew  where 


1 82  LAMIA.  PARTI. 

They  could  inhabit :  the  most  curious 

Were  foil'd,  who  watch  M  to  trace  them  to  their  house  : 

And  but  the  flitter-winged  verse  must  tell, 

For  truth's  sake,  what  woe  afterwards  befel, 

'Twould  humor  many  a  heart  to  leave  them  thus, 

Shut  from  the  busy  world  of  more  incredulous. 


LAMIA. 


PART   II. 

LOVE  in  a  hut,  with  water  and  a  crust, 

Is  —  Love,  forgive  us!  —  cinders,  ashes,  dust ; 

Love  in  a  palace  is  perhaps  at  last 

More  grievous  torment  than  a  hermit's  fast :  — 

That  is  a  doubtful  tale  from  faery  land, 

Hard  for  the  non-elect  to  understand. 

Had  Lycius  liv'd  to  hand  his  story  down, 

He  might  have  given  the  moral  a  fresh  frown, 

Or  clench'd  it  quite :  but  too  short  was  their  bliss 

To  breed  distrust  and  hate,  that  make  the  soft  voict 

hiss. 

Besides,  there,  nightly,  with  terrific  glare, 
Love,  jealous  grown  of  so  complete  a  pair, 
Hover'd  and  buzz'd  his  wings,  with  fearful  roar, 
Above  the  lintel  of  their  chamber  door, 
And  down  the  passage  cast  a  glow  upon  the  floor. 

For  all  this  came  a  ruin :  side  by  side 
They  were  enthroned,  in  the  even  tide, 
Upon  a  couch,  near  to  a  curtaining 
Whose  airy  texture,  from  a  golden  string, 
Floated  into  the  room,  and  let  appear 
Unveil'd  the  summer  heaven,  blue  and  clear, 
Betwixt  two  marble  shafts  :  —  there  thev  reposed, 
Where  use  had  made  it  sweet,  with  eyelids  closed, 
Saving  a  tythe  which  love  still  open  kept, 

183 


184  LAMIA.  PART  n. 

That  they  might  see  each  other  while  they  almost 

slept ; 

When  from  the  slope  side  of  a  suburb  hill, 
Deafening  the  swallow's  twitter,  came  a  thrill 
Of  trumpets  —  Lycius  started  —  the  sounds  fled, 
But  left  a  thought,  a  buzzing  in  his  head. 
For  the  first  time,  since  first  he  harbor'd  in 
That  purple-lined  palace  of  sweet  sin, 
His  spirit  pass'd  beyond  its  golden  bourn 
Into  the  noisy  world  almost  forsworn. 
The  lady,  ever  watchful,  penetrant, 
Saw  this  with  pain,  so  arguing  a  want 
Of  something  more,  more  than  her  empery 
Of  joys ;  and  she  began  to  moan  and  sigh 
Because  he  mused  beyond  her,  knowing  well 
That  but  a  moment's  thought  is  passion's  passing 

bell. 

'  Why  do  you  sigh,  fair  creature?"  whisper'd  he  : 
'  Why  do  you  think  ?  "  return'd  she  tenderly  : 
1  You  have  deserted  me  ;  —  where  am  I  now  ? 
'  Not  in  your  heart  while  care  weighs  on  your  brow : 
'  No,  no,  you  have  dismiss'd  me ;  and  I  go 
'  From  your  breast  houseless :  ay,  it  must  be  so." 
de  answer'd,  bending  to  her  open  eyes, 
Where  he  was  mirror'd  small  in  paradise, 
'  My  silver  planet,  both  of  eve  and  morn ! 
'Why  will  you  plead  yourself  so  sad  forlorn, 
'  While  I  am  striving  how  to  fill  my  heart 
'With  deeper  crimson,  and  a  double  smart? 
'  How  to  entangle,  trammel  up  and  snare 

Your  soul  in  mine,  and  labyrinth  you  there 
'  Like  the  hid  scent  in  an  unbudded  rose? 
'Ay,  a  sweet  kiss  —  you  see  your  mighty  woes. 

My  thoughts!  shall  I  unveil  them?     Listen  then! 

What  mortal  hath  a  prize,  that  other  men 

May  be  confounded  and  abash'd  withal, 
'  But  lets  it  sometimes  pace  abroad  majestical, 
'  And  triumph,  as  in  thee  I  should  rejoice 

Amid  the  hoarse  alarm  of  Corinth's  voice. 


PART  ii.  LAMIA.  185 

"  Let  my  foes  choke,  and  my  friends  shout  afar, 

"  While  through  the  thronged  streets  your  bridal  car 

"Wheels  round  its  dazzling  spokes."  — The  lady's 

cheek 

Trembled  ;  she  nothing  said,  but,  pale  and  meek, 
Arose  and  knelt  before  him,  wept  a  rain 
Of  sorrows  at  his  words ;  at  last  with  pain 
Beseeching  him,  the  while  his  hand  she  wrung, 
To  change  his  purpose.     He  thereat  was  stung, 
Perverse,  with  stronger  fancy  to  reclaim 
Her  wild  and  timid  nature  to  his  aim : 
Besides,  for  all  his  love,  in  self  despite, 
Against  his  better  self,  he  took  delight 
Luxurious  in  her  sorrows,  soft  and  new. 
His  passion,  cruel  grown,  took  on  a  hue 
Fierce  and  sanguineous  as  'twas  possible 
In  one  whose  brow  had  no  dark  veins  to  swell. 
Fine  was  the  mitigated  fury,  like 
Apollo's  presence  when  in  act  to  strike 
The  serpent  —  Ha,  the  serpent!  certes,  she 
Was  none.     She  burnt,  she  lov'd  the  tyranny, 
And,  all  subdued,  consented  to  the  hour 
When  to  the  bridal  he  should  lead  his  paramour. 
Whispering  in  midnight  silence,  said  the  youth, 
"  Sure  some  sweet  name  thou  hast,  though,  by  my 

truth, 

'  I  have  not  ask'd  it,  ever  thinking  thee 
'  Not  mortal,  but  of  heavenly  progeny, 
'As  still  I  do.     Hast  any  mortal  name, 
'  Fit  appellation  for  this  dazzling  frame  ? 
'  Or  friends  or  kinsfolk  on  the  citied  earth, 
'  To  share  our  marriage  feast  and  nuptial  mirth?" 
'  I  have  no  friends,"  said  Lamia,  "  no,  not  one ; 
'  My  presence  in  wide  Corinth  hardly  known : 
'  My  parents'  bones  are  in  their  dusty  urns 
;  Sepulchred,  where  no  kindled  incense  burns, 
'  Seeing  all  their  luckless  race  are  dead,  save  me, 
•  And  I  neglect  the  holy  rite  for  thee. 
'  Even  as  you  list  invite  your  many  guests ; 


1 86  LAMIA.  PART  II. 

"  But  if,  as  now  it  seems,  your  vision  rests 
"With  any  pleasure  on  me,  do  not  bid 
"Old  Apollonius  —  from  him  keep  me  hid." 
Lycius,  perplex'd  at  words  so  blind  and  blank, 
Made  close  inquiry ;  from  whose  touch  she  shrank, 
Feigning  a  sleep ;  and  he  to  the  dull  shade 
Of  deep  sleep  in  a  moment  was  betray'd. 

It  was  the  custom  then  to  bring  away 
The  bride  from  home  at  blushing  shut  of  day, 
Veil'd,  in  a  chariot,  heralded  along 
By  strewn  flowers,  torches,  and  a  marriage  song, 
With  other  pageants  :  but  this  fair  unknown 
Had  not  a  friend.     So  being  left  alone, 
(Lycius  was  gone  to  summon  all  his  kin) 
And  knowing  surely  she  could  never  win 
His  foolish  heart  from  its  mad  pompousness, 
She  set  herself,  high-thoughted,  how  to  dress 
The  misery  in  fit  magnificence. 
She  did  so,  but  'tis  doubtful  how  and  whence 
Came,  and  who  were  her  subtle  servitors. 
About  the  halls,  and  to  and  from  the  doors, 
There  was  a  noise  of  wings,  till  in  short  space 
The  glowing  banquet-room  shone  with  wide-arched 

grace. 

A  haunting  music,  sole  perhaps  and  lone 
Supportress  of  the  faery-roof,  made  moan 
Throughout,  as  fearful  the  whole  charm  might  fade. 
Fresh  carved  cedar,  mimicking  a  glade 
Of  palm  and  plantain,  met  from  either  side, 
High  in  the  midst,  in  honor  of  the  bride  : 
Two  palms  and  then  two  plantains,  and  so  on, 
From  either  side  their  stems  branched  one  to  one 
All  down  the  aisled  place ;  and  beneath  all 
There  ran  a  stream  of  lamps  straight  on  from  wall  to 

wall. 

So  canopied,  lay  an  untasted  feast 
Teeming  with  odors.     Lamia,  regal  drest, 
Silently  paced  about,  and  as  she  went, 


PART  ii.  LAMIA.  187 

In  pale  contented  sort  of  discontent, 
Mission'd  her  viewless  servants  to  enrich 
The  fretted  splendor  of  each  nook  and  niche. 
Between  the  tree-stems,  marbled  plain  at  first, 
Came  jasper  pannels  ;  then,  anon,  there  burst 
Forth  creeping  imagery  of  slighter  trees, 
And  with  the  larger  wove  in  small  intricacies. 
Approving  all,  she  faded  at  self-will, 
And  shut  the  chamber  up,  close,  hush'd  and  still, 
Complete  and  ready  for  the  revels  rude, 
When   dreadful  guests   would    come    to    spoil    her 
solitude. 

The  day  appear'd,  and  all  the  gossip  rout. 
O  senseless  Lycius!     Madman!  wherefore  flout 
The  silent-blessing  fate,  warm  cloister'd  hours, 
And  show  to  common  eyes  these  secret  bowers? 
The  herd  approach'd  ;  each  guest,  with  busy  brain, 
Arriving  at  the  portal,  gaz'd  amain, 
And  enter'd  marveling :  for  they  knew  the  street, 
Remember'd  it  from  childhood  all  complete 
Without  a  gap,  yet  ne'er  before  had  seen 
That  royal  porch,  that  high-built  fair  demesne ; 
So  in  they  hurried  all,  maz'd,  curious  and  keen : 
Save  one,  who  look'd  thereon  with  eye  severe, 
And  with  calm-planted  steps  walk'd  in  austere ; 
'Twas  Apollonius  :  something  too  he  laugh'd, 
As  though  some  knotty  problem,  that  had  daft 
His  patient  thought,  had  now  begun  to  thaw, 
And  solve  and  melt :  —  'twas  just  as  he  foresaw. 

He  met  within  the  murmurous  vestibule 
His  young  disciple.     "  'Tis  no  common  rule, 
'  Lycius,"  said  he,  "  for  uninvited  guest 
'  To  force  himself  upon  you,  and  infest 
'  With  an  unbidden  presence  the  bright  throng 
'  Of  younger  friends  ;  yet  must  I  do  this  wrong, 
'And  you  forgive  me."     Lycius  blush'd,  and  led 
The  old  man  through  the  inner  doors  broad-spread ; 


106  LAMIA.  PART  II. 

With  reconciling  words  and  courteous  mien 
Turning  into  sweet  milk  the  sophist's  spleen. 

Of  wealthy  lustre  was  the  banquet-room, 
Fill'd  with  pervading  brilliance  and  perfume  : 
Before  each  lucid  pannel  fuming  stood 
A  censer  fed  with  myrrh  and  spiced  wood, 
Each  by  a  sacred  tripod  held  aloft, 
Whose  slender  feet  wide-swerv'd  upon  the  soft 
Wool-woofed  carpets  :  fifty  wreaths  of  smoke 
From  fifty  censers  their  light  voyage  took 
To  the  high  roof,  still  mimick1d  as  they  rose 
Along  the  mirror'd  walls  by  twin-clouds  odorous. 
Twelve  sphered  tables,  by  silk  seats  insphered, 
High  as  the  level  of  a  man's  breast  rear'd 
On  libbard's  paws,  upheld  the  heavy  gold 
Of  cups  and  goblets,  and  the  store  thrice  told  » 

Of  Ceres'  horn,  and,  in  huge  vessels,  wine 
Came  from  the  gloomy  tun  with  merry  shine. 
Thus  loaded  with  a  feast  the  tables  stood, 
Each  shrining  in  the  midst  the  image  of  a  God. 

When  in  an  antichamber  every  guest 
Had  felt  the  cold  full  sponge  to  pleasure  press'd, 
By  minist'ring  slaves,  upon  his  hands  and  feet, 
And  fragrant  oils  with  ceremony  meet 
Pour'd  on  his  hair,  they  all  mov'd  to  the  feast 
In  white  robes,  and  themselves  in  order  placed 
Around  the  silken  couches,  wondering 
Whence  all  this   mighty  cost   and   blaze  of  wealth 
could  spring. 

Soft  went  the  music  the  soft  air  along, 
While  fluent  Greek  a  vowel'd  undersong 
Kept  up  among  the  guests,  discoursing  low 
At  first,  for  scarcely  was  the  wine  at  flow ; 
But  when  the  happy  vintage  toucrTd  their  brains, 
Louder  they  talk,  and  louder  come  the  strains 
Of  powerful  instruments :  —  the  gorgeous  dyes, 


PART  it.  LAMIA.  189 

The  space,  the  splendor  of  the  draperies, 
The  roof  of  awful  richness,  nectarous  cheer, 
Beautiful  slaves,  and  Lamia's  self,  appear, 
Now,  when  the  wine  has  done  its  rosy  deed, 
And  every  soul  from  human  trammels  freed, 
No  more  so  strange ;  for  merry  wine,  sweet  wine, 
Will  make  Elysian  shades  not  too  fair,  too  divine. 
Soon  was  God  Bacchus  at  meridian  height ; 
Flush'd  were  their  cheeks,  and  bright  eyes  double 

bright : 

Garlands  of  every  green,  and  every  scent 
From  vales  deflower'd,  or  forest-trees  branch-rent, 
In  baskets  of  bright  osier'd  gold  were  brought 
High  as  the  handles  heap'd,  to  suit  the  thought 
Of  every  guest ;  that  each,  as  he  did  please, 
Might  fancy-fit  his  brows,  silk-pillow'd  at  his  ease. 

What  wreath  for  Lamia?     What  for  Lycius? 
What  for  the  sage,  old  Apollonius? 
Upon  her  aching  forehead  be  there  hung 
The  leaves  of  willow  and  of  adder's  tongue ; 
And  for  the  youth,  quick,  let  us  strip  for  him 
The  thyrsus,  that  his  watching  eyes  may  swim 
Into  forgetfulness  ;  and,  for  the  sage, 
Let  spear-grass  and  the  spiteful  thistle  wage 
War  on  his  temples.     Do  not  all  charms  fly 
At  the  mere  touch  of  cold  philosophy? 
There  was  an  awful  rainbow  once  in  heaven : 
We  know  her  woof,  her  texture ;  she  is  given 
In  the  dull  catalogue  of  common  things. 
Philosophy  will  clip  an  Angel's  wings, 
Conquer  all  mysteries  by  rule  and  line, 
Empty  the  haunted  air,  and  gnomed  mine  — 
Unweave  a  rainbow,  as  it  erewhile  made 
The  tender-person'd  Lamia  melt  into  a  shade. 

By  her  glad  Lycius  sitting,  in  chief  place, 
Scarce  saw  in  all  the  room  another  face, 
Till,  checking  his  love  trance,  a  cup  he  took 


190  LAMIA.  PART  ii. 

Full  brimm'd,  and  opposite  sent  forth  a  look 
'Cross  the  broad  table,  to  beseech  a  glance 
From  his  old  teacher's  wrinkled  countenance, 
And  pledge  him.     The  bald-head  philosopher 
Had  fix'd  his  eye,  without  a  twinkle  or  stir 
Full  on  the  alarmed  beauty  of  the  bride, 
Brow-beating  her  fair  form,  and  troubling  her  sweet 

pride. 

Lycius  then  press'd  her  hand,  with  devout  touch, 
As  pale  it  lay  upon  the  rosy  couch  : 
'Twas  icy,  and  the  cold  ran  through  his  veins ; 
Then  sudden  it  grew  hot,  and  all  the  pains 
Of  an  unnatural  heat  shot  to  his  heart. 
"Lamia,  what    means    this?     Wherefore  dost   thou 

start? 
"  Know'st  thou  that  man  ? "     Poor  Lamia   answer'd 

not. 

He  gaz'd  into  her  eyes,  and  not  a  jot 
Own'd  they  the  lovelorn  piteous  appeal : 
More,  more  he  gaz'd  :  his  human  senses  reel : 
Some  hungry  spell  that  loveliness  absorbs  ; 
There  was  no  recognition  in  those  orbs. 
"  Lamia!  "  he  cried  —  and  no  soft-toned  reply. 
The  many  heard,  and  the  loud  revelry 
Grew  hush ;  the  stately  music  no  more  breathes ; 
The  myrtle  sicken'd  in  a  thousand  wreaths. 
By  faint  degrees,  voice,  lute,  and  pleasure  ceased ; 
A  deadly  silence  step  by  step  increased. 
Until  it  seem'd  a  horrid  presence  there. 
And  not  a  man  but  felt  the  terror  in  his  hair. 
"  Lamia!  "  he  shriek'd  ;  and  nothing  but  the  shriek 
With  its  sad  echo  did  the  silence  break. 
"  Begone,  foul  dream!  "  he  cried,  gazing  again 
In  the  bride's  face,  where  now  no  azure  vein 
Wander'd  on  fair-spaced  temples  ;  no  soft  bloom 
Misted  the  cheek ;  no  passion  to  illume 
The  deep-recessed  vision  :  —  all  was  blight ; 
Lamia,  no  longer  fair,  there  sat  a  deadly  white. 
"  Shut,  shut  those  juggling  eyes,  thou  ruthless  man! 


LAMIA. 


191 


"Turn  them  aside,  wretch!  or  the  righteous  ban 
"  Of  all  the  Gods,  whose  dreadful  images 
"  Here  represent  their  shadowy  presences, 
'  May  pierce  them  on  the  sudden  with  the  thorn 
Of  painful  blindness  ;  leaving  thee  forlorn, 
'  In  trembling  dotage  to  the  feeblest  fright 
'  Of  conscience,  for  their  long  offended  might, 
'  For  all  thine  impious  proud-heart  sophistries, 
'  Unlawful  magic,  and  enticing  lies. 
'  Corinthians !  look  upon  that  gray-beard  wretch ! 
1  Mark  how,  possessed,  his  lashless  eyelids  stretch 
'  Around  his  demon  eyes!     Corinthians,  see! 
'  My  sweet  bride  withers  at  their  potency.1' 
'  Fool! "  said  the  sophist,  in  an  under-tone 
Gruff  with  contempt ;  which  a  death-nighing  moan 
From  Lycius  answer'd,  as  heart-struck  and  lost, 
He  sank  supine  beside  the  aching  ghost. 
"  Fool!     Fool!  "  repeated  he,  while  his  eyes  still 
Relented  not,  nor  mov'd ;  "  from  every  ill 
"  Of  life  have  I  preserv'd  thee  to  this  day, 
"And  shall  I  see  thee  made  a  serpent's  prey?  " 
Then  Lamia  breath'd  death  breath  ;  the  sophist's  eye, 
Like  a  sharp  spear,  went  through  her  utterly, 
Keen,  cruel,  perceant,  stinging :  she,  as  well 
As  her  weak  hand  could  any  meaning  tell, 
Motion'd  him  to  be  silent ;  vainly  so, 
He  look'd  and  look'd  again  a  level —  No! 
"  A  Serpent ! "  echoed  he  ;  no  sooner  said, 
Than  with  a  frightful  scream  she  vanished : 
And  Lycius'  arms  were  empty  of  delight, 
As  were  his  limbs  of  life,  from  that  same  night. 
On  the  high  couch  he  lay!  —  his  friends  came  round  — 
Supported  him  —  no  pulse,  or  breath  they  found, 
And,  in  its  marriage  robe,  the  heavy  body  wound.1 

1  "  Pbilostratus,  in  his  fourth  book  De  Vita  Afollonii,  hath  a 
memorable  instance  in  this  kind,  which  I  may  not  omit,  of  one  Menip- 
pus  Lycius,  a  young  man  twenty-five  years  of  age,  that  going  betwixt 
Cenchreas  and  Corinth,  met  such  a  phantasm  in  the  habit  of  a  fair 
gentlewoman,  which  taking  him  by  the  hand,  carried  him  home  to  her 


192  LAMIA.  PART  n. 

house,  in  the  suburbs  of  Corinth,  and  told  him  she  was  a  Phoenician 
by  birth,  and  if  he  would  tarry  with  her,  he  should  hear  her  sing  and 
play,  and  drink  such  wine  as  never  any  drank,  and  no  man  should 
molest  him;  but  she,  being  fair  and  lovely,  would  live  and  die  with 
him",  that  was  fair  and  lovely  to  behold.  The  young  man,  a  philoso- 
pher, otherwise  staid  and  discreet,  able  to  moderate  his  passions, 
though  not  this  of  love,  tarried  with  her  a  while  to  his  great  content, 
and  at  last  married  her,  to  whose  wedding,  amongst  other  guests,  came 
Apollonius ;  who,  by  some  probable  conjectures,  found  her  out  to  be 
a  serpent,  a  lamia;  and  that  all  her  furniture  was,  like  Tantalus'  gold, 
described  by  Homer,  no  substance  but  mere  illusions.  When  she  saw 
herself  descried,  she  wept,  and  desired  Apollonius  to  be  silent,  but  he 
would  not  be  moved,  and  thereupon  she,  plate,  house,  and  all  that 
was  in  it,  vanished  in  an  instant:  many  thousands  took  notice  of  this 
fact,  for  it  was  done  in  the  midst  of  Greece."  —  Burton's  '  Anatomy 
of  Melancholy.'  Part  3.  Sect.  i.  Mentb.  i.  Subs.  i. 


ISABELLA; 

OR, 

THE   POT  OF  BASIL. 


A   STORY   FROM   BOCCACCIO. 

i. 

FAIR  Isabel,  poor  simple  Isabel! 

Lorenzo,  a  young  palmer  in  Love's  eye! 
They  could  not  in  the  self-same  mansion  dwell 

Without.  some  stir  of  heart,  some  malady; 
They  could  not  sit  at  meals  but  feel  how  well 

It  soothed  each  to  be  the  other  by  ; 
They  could  not,  sure,  beneath  the  same  roof  sleep 
But  to  each  other  dream,  and  nightly  weep. 


n. 

With  every  morn  their  love  grew  tenderer, 
With  every  eve  deeper  and  tenderer  still  ; 

He  might  not  in  house,  field,  or  garden  stir, 
But  her  full  shape  would  all  his  seeing  fill  ; 

And  his  continual  voice  was  pleasanter 
To  her,  than  noise  of  trees  or  hidden  rill  ; 

Her  lute-string  gave  an  echo  of  his  name, 

She  spoilt  her  half-done  broidery  with  the  same. 


194  ISABELLA. 

III. 

He  knew  whose  gentle  hand  was  at  the  latch, 
Before  the  door  had  given  her  to  his  eyes ; 

And  from  her  chamber-window  he  would  catch 
Her  beauty  farther  than  the  falcon  spies ; 

And  constant  as  her  vespers  would  he  watch, 
Because  her  face  was  turn'd  to  the  same  skies ; 

And  with  sick  longing  all  the  night  outwear, 

To  hear  her  morning-step  upon  the  stair. 

IV. 

A  whole  long  month  of  May  in  this  sad  plight 
Made  their  cheeks  paler  by  the  break  of  June : 

"To-morrow  will  I  bow  to  my  delight, 

"To-morrow  will  I  ask  my  lady's  boon.1'  — 

"  O  may  I  never  see  another  night, 

"  Lorenzo,  if  thy  lips  breathe  not  love's  tune."- 

So  spake  they  to  their  pillows  ;  but,  alas, 

Honeyless  days  and  days  did  he  let  pass ; 

v. 

Until  sweet  Isabella's  untouch'd  cheek 
Fell  sick  within  the  rose's  just  domain, 

Fell  thin  as  a  young  mother's,  who  doth  seek 
By  every  lull  to  cool  her  infant's  pain : 

"  How  ill  she  is,"  said  he,  "  I  may  not  speak, 
"  And  yet  I  will,  and  tell  my  love  all  plain : 

"  If  looks  speak  love-laws,  I  will  drink  her  tears, 

"And  at  the  least  'twill  startle  off  her  cares." 


VI. 

So  said  he  one  fair  morning,  and  all  day 
His  heart  beat  awfully  against  his  side ; 

And  to  his  heart  he  inwardly  did  pray 

For  power  to  speak  ;  but  still  the  ruddy  tide 


ISABELLA.  195 

Stifled  his  voice,  and  puls'd  resolve  away  — 

Fever'd  his  high  conceit  of  such  a  bride, 

Yet  brought  him  to  the  meekness  of  a  child : 

Alas!  when  passion  is  both  meek  and  wild! 


VII. 

So  once  more  he  had  wak'd  and  anguished 
A  dreary  night  of  love  and  misery, 

If  Isabel's  quick  eye  had  not  been  wed 
To  every  symbol  on  his  forehead  high  ; 

She  saw  it  waxing  very  pale  and  dead, 

And  straight  all  flushed  ;  so,  lisped  tenderly, 

"  Lorenzo ! "  —  here  she  ceas'd  her  timid  quest, 

But  in  her  tone  and  look  he  read  the  rest. 


VIII. 

"  O  Isabella,  I  can  half  perceive 

"That  I  may  speak  my  grief  into  thine  ear; 
"  If  thou  didst  ever  any  thing  believe, 

"  Believe  how  I  love  thee,  believe  how  near 
"  My  soul  is  to  its  doom :  I  would  not  grieve 

"  Thy  hand  by  unwelcome  pressing,  would  not  fear 
"  Thine  eyes  by  gazing ;  but  I  cannot  live 
"  Another  night,  and  not  my  passion  shrive. 


IX. 

"  Love !  thou  art  leading  me  from  wintry  cold, 
"  Lady !  thou  leadest  me  to  summer  clime, 

"  And  I  must  taste  the  blossoms  that  unfold 

"In  its  ripe  warmth  this  gracious  morning  time." 

So  said,  his  erewhile  lips  grew  bold, 
And  poesied  with  hers  in  dewy  rhyme : 

Great  bliss  was  with  them,  and  great  happiness 

Grew,  like  a  lusty  flower  in  June's  caress. 


196  ISABELLA. 

X. 

Parting  they  seem'd  to  tread  upon  the  air, 
Twin  roses  by  the  zephyr  blown  apart 

Only  to  meet  again  more  close,  and  share 
The  inward  fragrance  of  each  other's  heart. 

She,  to  her  chamber  gone,  a  ditty  fair 
Sang,  of  delicious  love  and  honey'd  dart ; 

He  with  light  steps  went  up  a  western  hill, 

And  bade  the  sun  farewell,  and  joy'd  his  fill. 

XI. 

All  close  they  met  again,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant  veil, 

All  close  they  met,  all  eves,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant  veil, 

Close  in  a  bower  of  hyacinth  and  musk, 
Unknown  of  any,  free  from  whispering  tale. 

Ah !  better  had  it  been  for  ever  so, 

Than  idle  ears  should  pleasure  in  their  woe. 

XII. 

Were  they  unhappy  then  ?  —  It  cannot  be  — 
Too  many  tears  for  lovers  have  been  shed, 

Too  many  sighs  give  we  to  them  in  fee, 
Too  much  of  pity  after  they  are  dead, 

Too  many  doleful  stories  do  we  see, 
Whose  matter  in  bright  gold  were  best  be  read ; 

Except  in  such  a  page  where  Theseus'  spouse 

Over  the  pathless  waves  towards  him  bows. 

XIII. 

But,  for  the  general  award  of  love, 
The  little  sweet  doth  kill  much  bitterness ; 

Though  Dido  silent  is  in  under-grove, 
And  Isabella's  was  a  great  distress, 


ISABELLA.  TO  7 

Though  young  Lorenzo  in  warm  Indian  clove 

Was  not  embalm'd,  this  truth  is  not  the  less  — 
Even  bees,  the  little  almsmen  of  spring-bowers, 
Know  there  is  richest  juice  in  poison-flowers. 


XIV. 

With  her  tv/o  brothers  this  fair  lady  dwelt, 
Enriched  from  ancestral  merchandize, 

And  for  them  many  a  weary  hand  did  swelt 
In  torched  mines  and  noisy  factories, 

And  many  once  proud-quiver'd  loins  did  melt 
In  blood  from  stinging  whip ;  —  with  hollow  eyes 

Many  all  day  in  dazzling  river  stood, 

To  take  the  rich-ored  driftings  of  the  flood. 


XV. 

For  them  the  Ceylon  diver  held  his  breath, 
And  went  all  naked  to  the  hungry  shark ; 

For  them  his  ears  gush'd  blood ;  for  them  in  death 
The  seal  on  the  cold  ice  with  piteous  bark 

Lay  full  of  darts  ;  for  them  alone  did  seethe 
A  thousand  men  in  troubles  wide  and  dark : 

Half-ignorant,  they  turn'd  an  easy  wheel, 

That  set  sharp  racks  at  work,  to  pinch  and  peel. 


XVI. 

Why  were  they  proud?     Because  their  marble  founts 
Gush'd  with  more  pride  than  do  a  wretch's  tears  ?  — 

Why  were  they  proud?     Because  fair  orange-mounts 
Were  of  more  soft  ascent  than  lazar  stairs?  — 

Why  were  they  proud?     Because  red-lin'd  accounts 
Were  richer  than  the  songs  of  Grecian  years?  — 

Why  were  they  proud  ?  again  we  ask  aloud, 

Why  in  the  name  of  Glory  were  they  proud? 


198  ISABELLA. 

XVII. 

Yet  were  these  Florentines  as  self-retired 
In  hungry  pride  and  gainful  cowardice, 

As  two  close  Hebrews  in  that  land  inspired, 
Paled  in  and  vineyarded  from  beggar-spies ; 

The  hawks  of  ship-mast  forests  —  the  untired 
And  pannier'd  mules  for  ducats  and  old  lies  — 

Quick  cat's-paws  on  the  generous  stray-away,  — 

Great  wits  in  Spanish,  Tuscan,  and  Malay. 

xvni. 

How  was  it  these  same  ledger-men  could  spy 

Fair  Isabella  in  her  downy  nest? 
How  could  they  find  out  in  Lorenzo's  eye 

A  straying  from  his  toil?     Hot  Egypt's  pest 
Into  their  vision  covetous  and  sly! 

How  could  these  money-bags  see  east  and  west  ?  - 
Yet  so  they  did  —  and  every  dealer  fair 
Must  see  behind,  as  doth  the  hunted  hare. 

XIX. 

O  eloquent  and  famed  Boccaccio! 

Of  thee  we  now  should  ask  forgiving  boon, 
And  of  thy  spicy  myrtles  as  they  blow, 

And  of  thy  roses  amorous  of  the  moon, 
And  of  thy  lilies,  that  do  paler  grow 

Now  they  can  no  more  hear  thy  ghittern's  tune, 
For  venturing  syllables  that  ill  beseem 
The  quiet  glooms  of  such  a  piteous  theme. 

XX. 

Grant  thou  a  pardon  here,  and  then  the  tale 
Shall  move  on  soberly,  as  it  is  meet ; 

There  is  no  other  crime,  no  mad  assail 

To  make  old  prose  in  modern  rhyme  more  sweet : 


ISABELLA.  199 

But  it  is  done  —  succeed  the  verse  or  fail  — 
To  honor  thee,  and  thy  gone  spirit  greet ; 
To  stead  thee  as  a  verse  in  English  tongue, 
An  echo  of  thee  in  the  north-wind  sung. 


XXI. 

These  brethren  having  found  by  many  signs 
What  love  Lorenzo  for  their  sister  had, 

And  how  she  lov'd  him  too,  each  unconfines 
His  bitter  thoughts  to  other,  well  nigh  mad 

That  he,  the  servant  of  their  trade  designs, 
Should  in  their  sister's  love  be  blithe  and  glad, 

When  'twas  their  plan  to  coax  her  by  degrees 

To  some  high  noble  and  his  olive-trees. 


XXII. 

And  many  a  jealous  conference  had  they, 
And  many  times  they  bit  their  lips  alone, 

Before  they  fix'd  upon  a  surest  way 

To  make  the  youngster  for  his  crime  atone ; 

And  at  the  last,  these  men  of  cruel  clay 
Cut  Mercy  with  a  sharp  knife  to  the  bone ; 

For  they  resolved  in  some  forest  dim 

To  kill  Lorenzo,  and  there  bury  him. 

xxin. 

So  on  a  pleasant  morning,  as  he  leant 

Into  the  sun-rise,  o'er  the  balustrade 
Of  the  garden-terrace,  towards  him  they  bent 

Their  footing  through  the  dews ;  and  to  him  said, 
"  You  seem  there  in  the  quiet  of  content, 

"  Lorenzo,  and  we  are  most  loth  to  invade 
"  Calm  speculation  ;  but  if  you  are  wise, 
"  Bestride  your  steed  while  cold  is  in  the  skies. 


200  ISABELLA. 

XXIV. 

"  To-day  we  purpose,  ay,  this  hour  we  mount 
"  To  spur  three  leagues  towards  the  Apennine ; 

"  Come  down,  we  pray  thee,  ere  the  hot  sun  count 
"  His  dewy  rosary  on  the  eglantine." 

Lorenzo,  courteously  as  he  was  wont, 

Bow'd  a  fair  greeting  to  these  serpents1  whine ; 

And  went  in  haste,  to  get  in  readiness, 

With  belt,  and  spur,  and  bracing  huntsman's  dress. 

XXV. 

And  as  he  to  the  court-yard  pass'd  along, 
Each  third  step  did  he  pause,  and  listen'd  oft 

If  he  could  hear  his  lady's  matin-song, 
Or  the  light  whisper  of  her  footstep  soft ; 

And  as  he  thus  over  his  passion  hung, 
He  heard  a  laugh  full  musical  aloft ; 

When,  looking  up,  he  saw  her  features  bright 

Smile  through  an  in-door  lattice,  all  delight. 

XXVI. 

"  Love,  Isabel!"  said  he,  "  I  was  in  pain 

"  Lest  I  should  miss  to  bid  thee  a  good  morrow : 

"Ah!  what  if  I  should  lose  thee,  when  so  fain 
"  I  am  to  stifle  all  the  heavy  sorrow 

"  Of  a  poor  three  hours'  absence  ?  but  we'll  gain 
"  Out  of  the  amorous  dark  what  day  doth  borrow. 

<;  Good  bye!  I'll  soon  be  back."  —  " Good  bye!  "  said 
she :  — 

And  as  he  went  she  chanted  merrily. 

XXVII. 

So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murder'd  man 
Rode  past  fair  Florence,  to  where  Arno's  stream 

Gurgles  through  straiten'd  banks,  and  still  doth  fan 
Itself  with  dancing  bulrush,  and  the  bream 


ISABELLA.  201 

Keeps  head  against  the  freshets.     Sick  and  wan 

The  brothers1  faces  in  the  ford  did  seem, 
Lorenzo's  flush  with  love.  —  They  pass'd  the  water 
Into  a  forest  quiet  for  the  slaughter. 

XXVIII. 

There  was  Lorenzo  slain  and  buried  in, 

There  in  that  forest  did  his  great  love  cease  ; 

Ah !  when  a  soul  doth  thus  its  freedom  win, 
It  aches  in  loneliness  —  is  ill  at  peace 

As  the  break-covert  blood-hounds  of  such  sin : 

They  dipp'd  their  swords  in  the  water,  and  did  tease 

Their  horses  homeward,  with  convulsed  spur, 

Each  richer  by  his  being  a  murderer. 

XXIX. 

They  told  their  sister  how,  with  sudden  speed, 
Lorenzo  had  ta'en  ship  for  foreign  lands, 

Because  of  some  great  urgency  and  need 
In  their  affairs,  requiring  trusty  hands. 

Poor  Girl!  put  on  thy  stifling  widow's  weed, 

And  'scape  at  once  from  Hope's  accursed  bands ; 

To-day  thou  wilt  not  see  him,  nor  to-morrow, 

And  the  next  day  will  be  a  day  of  sorrow. 

XXX. 

She  weeps  alone  for  pleasures  not  to  be ; 

Sorely  she  wept  until  the  night  came  on, 
And  then,  instead  of  love,  O  misery! 

She  brooded  o'er  the  luxury  alone : 
His  image  in  the  dusk  she  seem'd  to  see, 

And  to  the  silence  made  a  gentle  moah, 
Spreading  her  perfect  arms  upon  the  air, 
And    on   her  couch  low   murmuring,   "Where? 
where?" 


202  ISABELLA. 

XXXI 

But  Selfishness,  Love's  cousin,  held  not  long 
Its  fiery  vigil  in  her  single  breast; 

She  fretted  for  the  golden  hour,  and  hung 
Upon  the  time  with  feverish  unrest  — 

Not  long  —  for  soon  into  her  heart  a  throng 
Of  higher  occupants,  a  richer  zest, 

Came  tragic ;  passion  not  to  be  subdued, 

And  sorrow  for  her  love  in  travels  rude. 


XXXII. 

In  the  mid  days  of  autumn,  on  their  eves 
The  breath  of  Winter  comes  from  far  away, 

And  the  sick  west  continually  bereaves 
Of  some  gold  tinge,  and  plays  a  roundelay 

Of  death  among  the  bushes  and  the  leaves, 
To  make  all  bare  before  he  dares  to  stray 

From  his  north  cavern.     So  sweet  Isabel 

By  gradual  decay  from  beauty  fell, 

XXXIII. 

Because  Lorenzo  came  not.     Oftentimes 
She  ask'd  her  brothers,  with  an  eye  all  pale, 

Striving  to  be  itself,  what  dungeon  climes 

Could  keep  him  off  so  long?     They  spake  a  tale 

Time  after  time,  to  quiet  her.     Their  crimes 

Came  on  them,  like  a  smoke  from  Hinnom's  vale  ; 

And  every  night  in  dreams  they  groaned  aloud. 

To  see  their  sister  in  her  snowy  shroud. 

xxx  rv. 

And  she  had  died  in  drowsy  ignorance, 
But  for  a  thing  more  deadly  dark  than  all ; 

It  came  like  a  fierce  potion,  drunk  by  chance, 
Which  saves  a  sick  man  from  the  featherd  pall 


ISABELLA.  203 

For  some  few  gasping  moments ;  like  a  lance, 

Waking  an  Indian  from  his  cloudy  hall 
With  cruel  pierce,  and  bringing  him  again 
Sense  of  the  gnawing  fire  at  heart  and  brain. 


XXXV. 

It  was  a  vision.  —  In  the  drowsy  gloom, 
The  dull  of  midnight,  at  her  couch's  foot 

Lorenzo  stood,  and  wept :  the  forest  tomb 

Had    marr'd   his  glossy  hair  which   once   could 
shoot 

Lustre  into  the  sun,  and  put  cold  doom 
Upon  his  lips,  and  taken  the  soft  lute 

From  his  lorn  voice,  and  past  his  loamed  ears 

Had  made  a  miry  channel  for  his  tears. 

XXXVI. 

Strange  sound  it  was,  when  the  pale  shadow  spake ; 

For  there  was  striving,  in  its  piteous  tongue, 
To  speak  as  when  on  earth  it  was  awake, 

And  Isabella  on  its  music  hung : 
Languor  there  was  in  it,  and  tremulous  shake, 

As  in  a  palsied  Druid's  harp  unstrung ; 
And  through  it  moan'd  a  ghostly  under-song, 
Like  hoarse  night-gusts  sepulchral  briars  among. 

XXXVII. 

Its  eyes,  though  wild,  were  still  all  dewy  bright 
With  love,  and  kept  all  phantom  fear  aloof 

From  the  poor  girl  by  magic  of  their  light, 
The  while  it  did  unthread  the  horrid  woof 

Of  the  late  darken'd  time,  — the  murderous  spite 
Of  pride  and  avarice,  — the  dark  pine  roof 

In  the  forest,— and  the  sodden  turfed  dell, 

Where,  without  any  word,  from  stabs  he  fell. 


204  ISABELLA. 

xxxvm. 

Saying  moreover,  "  Isabel,  my  sweet ! 

"  Red  whortle-berries  droop  above  my  head, 
"  And  a  large  flint-stone  weighs  upon  my  feet ; 

"  Around  me  beeches  and  high  chestnuts  shed 
"  Their  leaves  and  prickly  nuts  ;  a  sheep-fold  bleat 

"  Comes  from  beyond  the  river  to  my  bed : 
"  Go,  shed  one  tear  upon  my  heather-bloom, 
"  And  it  shall  comfort  me  within  the  tomb. 

XXXIX. 

"  I  am  a  shadow  now,  alas!  alas  ! 

"  Upon  the  skirts  of  human-nature  dwelling 
"  Alone  :  I  chant  alone  the  holy  mass, 

"  While  little  sounds  of  life  are  round  me  knelling, 
"  And  glossy  bees  at  noon  do  fieldward  pass, 

"  And  many  a  chapel  bell  the  hour  is  telling, 
"  Paining  me  through  :   those  sounds  grow  strange  to 

me, 
"  And  thou  art  distant  in  Humanity. 

XL. 

"  I  know  what  was,  I  feel  full  well  what  is, 
"  And  I  should  rage,  if  spirits  could  go  mad  ; 

"  Though  I  forget  the  taste  of  earthly  bliss. 

"  That  paleness  warms  my  grave,  as  though  I  had 

"  A  Seraph  chosen  from  the  bright  abyss 

"  To  be  my  spouse  :  thy  paleness  makes  me  glad ; 

"  Thy  beauty  grows  upon  me,  and  I  feel 

"A  greater  love  through  all  my  essence  steal." 

XLI. 

The  Spirit  mourn'd  "Adieu!  "  —  dissolved,  and  left 
The  atom  darkness  in  a  slow  turmoil ; 

As  when  of  healthful  midnight  sleep  bereft. 
Thinking  on  rugged  hours  and  fruitless  toil, 


ISABELLA.  205 

We  put  our  eyes  into  a  pillowy  cleft, 

And  see  the  spangly  gloom  froth  up  and  boil : 
It  made  sad  Isabella's  eyelids  ache, 
And  in  the  dawn  she  started  up  awake ; 

XLII. 

"  Ha!  ha!  "  said  she,  "  I  knew  not  this  hard  life, 
"  I  thought  the  worst  was  simple  misery ; 

"  I  thought  some  Fate  with  pleasure  or  with  strife 
"  Portion'd  us  —  happy  days,  or  else  to  die ; 

"  But  there  is  crime  —  a  brother's  bloody  knife! 
"  Sweet  Spirit,  thou  hast  school'd  my  infancy : 

"  I'll  visit  thee  for  this,  and  kiss  thine  eyes, 

"And  greet  thee  morn  and  even  in  the  skies." 


XLIII. 

When  the  full  morning  came,  she  had  devised 
How  she  might  secret  to  the  forest  hie ; 

How  she  might  find  the  clay,  so  dearly  prized, 
And  sing  to  it  one  latest  lullaby ; 

How  her  short  absence  might  be  unsurmised, 
While  she  the  inmost  of  the  dream  would  try. 

Resolv'd,  she  took  with  her  an  aged  nurse, 

And  went  into  that  dismal  forest-hearse. 


XLIV. 

See,  as  they  creep  along  the  river  side, 
How  she'doth  whisper  to  that  aged  Dame, 

And,  after  looking  round  the  champaign  wide, 

Shows  her  a  knife.  —  "  What  feverous  hectic  flame 

"  Burns  in  thee,  child?  — What  good  can  thee  betide, 
"  That  thou  should'st  smile  again  ? "  —  The  evening 
came, 

And  they  had  found  Lorenzo's  earthy  bed ; 

The  flint  was  there,  the  berries  at  his  head. 


206  ISABELLA. 

XLV. 

Who  hath  not  loiter'd  in  a  green  church-yard, 
And  let  his  spirit,  like  a  demon-mole, 

Work  through  the  clayey  soil  and  gravel  hard, 
To  see  skull,  coffined  bones,  and  funeral  stole ; 

Pitying  each  form  that  hungry  Death  hath  marred, 
And  filling  it  once  more  with  human  soul? 

Ah!  this  is  holiday  to  what  was  felt 

When  Isabella  by  Lorenzo  knelt. 

XLVI. 

She  gaz'd  into  the  fresh-thrown  mould,  as  though 
One  glance  did  fully  all  its  secrets  tell ; 

Clearly  she  saw,  as  other  eyes  would  know 
Pale  limbs  at  bottom  of  a  crystal  well ; 

Upon  the  murderous  spot  she  seenrfd  to  grow, 
Like  to  a  native  lily  of  the  dell : 

Then  with  her  knife,  all  sudden,  she  began 

To  dig  more  fervently  than  misers  can. 


Soon  she  turned  up  a  soiled  glove,  whereon 
Her  silk  had  play'd  in  purple  phantasies, 

She  kiss'd  it  with  a  lip  more  chill  than  stone, 
And  put  it  in  her  bosom,  where  it  dries 

And  freezes  utterly  unto  the  bone 

Those  dainties  made  to  still  an  infant's  cries : 

Then  'gan  she  work  again  ;  nor  stay'd  her  care, 

But  to  throw  back  at  times  her  veiling  hair. 


That  old  nurse  stood  beside  her  wondering, 
Until  her  heart  felt  pity  to  the  core 

At  sight  of  such  a  dismal  laboring, 

And  so  she  kneeled,  with  her  locks  all  hoar, 


ISABELLA.  207 

And  put  her  lean  hands  to  the  horrid  thing : 

Three  hours  they  labor'd  at  this  travail  sore : 
At  last  they  felt  the  kernel  of  the  grave, 
And  Isabella  did  not  stamp  and  rave. 


XLIX. 


Ah!  wherefore  all  this  wormy  circumstance? 

Why  linger  at  the  yawning  tomb  so  long? 
O  for  the  gentleness  of  old  Romance, 

The  simple  plaining  of  a  minstrel's  song! 
Fair  reader,  at  the  old  tale  take  a  glance, 

For  here,  in  truth,  it  doth  not  well  belong 
To  speak :  —  O  turn  thee  to  the  very  tale, 
And  taste  the  music  of  that  vision  pale. 


L. 

With  duller  steel  than  the  Persian  sword 
They  cut  away  no  formless  monster's  head, 

But  one,  whose  gentleness  did  well  accord 

With  death,  as  life.      The  ancient  harps  have  said, 

Love  never  dies,  but  lives,  immortal  Lord : 
If  Love  impersonate  was  ever  dead, 

Pale  Isabella  kiss'd  it,  and  low  moan'd. 

'Twas  love ;  cold,  —  dead  indeed,  but  not  dethroned. 


In  anxious  secrecy  they  took  it  home, 
And  then  the  prize  was  all  for  Isabel : 

She  calm'd  its  wild  hair  with  a  golden  comb, 
And  all  around  each  eye's  sepulchral  cell 

Pointed  each  fringed  lash ;  the  smeared  loam 
With  tears,  as  chilly  as  a  dripping  well, 

She  drench'd  away :  —  and  still  she  comb'd,  and  kept 

Sighing  all  day  — and  still  she  kiss'd,  and  wept. 


208  ISABELLA. 

LII. 

Then  in  a  silken  scarf,  —  sweet  with  the  dews 

Of  precrous  flowers  pluck'd  in  Araby. 
And  divine  liquids  come  with  odorous  ooze 

Through  the  cold  serpent  pipe  refreshfully,  — 
She  wrapp'd  it  up ;  and  for  its  tomb  did  choose 

A  garden-pot,  wherein  she  laid  it  by, 
And  cover'd  it  with  mould,  and  o'er  it  set 
Sweet  Basil,  which  her  tears  kept  ever  wet. 

LIII. 

And  she  forgot  the  stars,  the  moon,  and  sun, 
And  she  forgot  the  blue  above  the  trees, 

And  she  forgot  the  dells  where  waters  run, 
And  she  forgot  the  chilly  autumn  breeze ; 

She  had  no  knowledge  when  the  day  was  done, 
And  the  new  morn  she  saw  not :  but  in  peace 

Hung  over  her  sweet  Basil  evermore, 

And  moisten'd  it  with  tears  unto  the  core. 

LIV. 

And  so  she  ever  fed  it  with  thin  tears, 

Whence  thick,  and  green,  and  beautiful  it  grew, 

So  that  it  smelt  more  balmy  than  its  peers 
Of  Basil-tufts  in  Florence  ;  for  it  drew 

Nurture  besides,  and  life,  from  human  fears, 

From  the  fast  mouldering  head  there  shut  from 
view : 

So  that  the  jewel,  safely  casketed, 

Came  forth,  and  in  perfumed  leafits  spread. 

LV. 

O  Melancholy,  linger  here  awhile! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  from  some  sombre  isle, 

Unknown,  Lethean,  sigh  to  us  —  O  sigh ! 


ISABELLA.  209 

Spirits  in  grief,  lift  up  your  heads,  and  smile ; 

Lift  up  your  heads,  sweet  Spirits,  heavily, 
And  make  a  pale  light  in  your  cypress  glooms, 
Tinting  with  silver  wan  your  marble  tombs. 


LVI. 


Moan  hither,  all  ye  syllables  of  woe, 
From  the  deep  throat  of  sad  Melpomene ! 

Through  bronzed  lyre  in  tragic  order  go, 
And  touch  the  strings  into  a  mystery ; 

Sound  mournfully  upon  the  winds  and  low ; 
For  simple  Isabel  is  soon  to  be 

Among  the  dead  :  She  withers,  like  a  palm 

Cut  by  an  Indian  for  its  juicy  balm. 


LVII. 

O  leave  the  palm  to  wither  by  itself; 

Let  not  quick  Winter  chill  its  dying  hour!  — 
It  may  not  be  —  those  Baalites  of  pelf, 

Her  brethren,  noted  the  continual  shower 
From  her  dead  eyes  ;  and  many  a  curious  elf, 

Among  her  kindred,  wonder'd  that  such  dower 
Of  youth  and  beauty  should  be  thrown  aside 
By  one  mark'd  out  to  be  a  Noble's  bride. 


LVIII. 

And,  furthermore,  her  brethren  wonder'd  much 
Why  she  sat  drooping  by  the  Basil  green, 

And  why  it  flourish'd,  as  by  magic  touch ; 

Greatly  they  wonder'd  what  the  thing  might  mean : 

They  could  not  surely  give  belief,  that  such 
A  very  nothing  would  have  power  to  wean 

Her  from  her  own  fair  youth,  and  pleasures  gay, 

And  even  remembrance  of  her  love's  delay. 


210  ISABELLA. 

LIX. 

Therefore  they  watch'd  a  time  when  they  might  sift 
This  hidden  whim  ;  and  long  they  watch'd  in  vain  ; 

For  seldom  did  she  go  to  chapel-shrift. 
And  seldom  felt  she  any  hunger-pain  ; 

And  when  she  left,  she  hurried  back,  as  swift 
As  bird  on  wing  to  breast  its  eggs  again  ; 

And,  patient  as  a  hen-bird,  sat  her  there 

Beside  her  Basil,  weeping  through  her  hair. 

LX. 

Yet  they  contriv'd  to  steal  the  Basil-pot, 

And  to  examine  it  in  secret  place : 
The  thing  was  vile  with  green  and  livid  spot, 

And  yet  they  knew  it  was  Lorenzo's  face : 
The  guerdon  of  their  murder  they  had  got, 

And  so  left  Florence  in  a  moment's  space, 
Never  to  turn  again.  —  Away  they  went, 
With  blood  upon  their  heads,  to  banishment. 

LXI. 

O  Melancholy,  turn  thine  eyes  away! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly ! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  on  some  other  day, 

From  isles  Lethean,  sigh  to  us  —  O  sigh! 
Spirits  of  grief,  sing  not  your  "  Well-a-way!  " 

For  Isabel,  sweet  Isabel,  will  die ; 
Will  die  a  death  too  lone  and  incomplete, 
Now  they  have  ta'en  away  her  Basil  sweet. 

LXII. 

Piteous  she  looked  on  dead  and  senseless  things. 

Asking  for  her  lost  Basil  amorously : 
And  with  melodious  chuckle  in  the  strings 

Of  her  lorn  voice,  she  oftentimes  would  cry 


ISABELLA.  211 

After  the  Pilgrim  in  his  wanderings, 

To  ask  him  where  her  Basil  was ;  and  why 
rTwas  hid  from  her :  "  For  cruel  'tis,"  said  she, 
"  To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  mei" 


LXIII. 

And  so  she  pined,  and  so  she  died  forlorn, 

Imploring  for  her  Basil  to  the  last. 
No  heart  was  there  in  Florence  but  did  mourn 

In  pity  of  her  love,  so  overcast. 
And  a  sad  ditty  of  this  story  born 

From  mouth   to   mouth   through  all  the   country 

pass'd : 

Still  is  the  burthen  sung  —  "  O  cruelty, 
"  To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me!" 


THE 

EVE   OF   ST.   AGNES. 


ST.  AGNES'  Eve  —  Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  wooly  fold : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers,  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he 
saith. 

ir. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The  sculptur'd  dead,  on  each  side,  seem  to  freeze, 
Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
He  passeth  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 


Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue 
Flatter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor ; 
But  no  —  already  had  his  deathbell  rung ; 


EVE    OF  ST.   AGNES.  213 

The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung : 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes1  Eve : 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to  grieve. 


IV. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanc'd,  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide : 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Star'd  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise  on 
their  breasts. 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 

With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 

Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 

The  brain,  new  stufPd,  in  youth,  with  triumphs 

gay 

Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away, 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted.  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare- 


\n. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey'd  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 


214  EVE    OF  ST.   AGNES. 

As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 

VII. 

Ful)  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline  : 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard  :  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by  —  she  heeded  not  at  all :  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 
And  back  retir'd ;  not  cool'd  by  high  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  otherwhere  : 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes1  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the 
year. 

VIII. 

She  danc'd  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short : 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand :  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd  with  faery  fancy ;  all  amort, 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 

IX. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  linger'd  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen  ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss  —  in  sooth  such 
things  have  been. 


EVE    OF  ST.   AGNES.  215 


He  ventures  in :  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  Love's  fev'rous  citadel : 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes, 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage :  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 


XI. 

Ah,  happy  chance!  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland : 
He  startled  her ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasp' d  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 
Saying,   "Mercy,  Porphyro!    hie   thee  from   this 

place ; 
"  They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood-thirsty 


XII. 

"Get  hence!  get  hence!   there's  dwarfish   Hilde- 

brand ; 

<  He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
'  He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land : 
1  Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
'  More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs  —  Alas  me!  flit! 
1  Flit  like  a  ghost  away."  — "Ah,  Gossip  dear, 
'  We're  safe  enough  ;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 
'And  tell  me   how"  — "Good  Saints!   not  here, 

not  here ; 
"  Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy 

bier." 


216  EVE    OF  ST.   AGNES. 

XIII. 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume ; 
And  as  she  mutter'd  uWell-a  —  well-a-day!" 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  lattic'd,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
"  Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
"  When  they  St.  Agnes1  wool  are  weaving  piously." 

XIV. 

'  St.  Agnes!     Ah!  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve  — 
'  Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days  : 
'  Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
'  And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
'  To  venture  so  :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
'To  see  thee,  Porphyro!  —  St.  Agnes'  Eve! 
'  God's  help !  my  lady  fair  the  conjuror  plays 
'  This  very  night :  good  angels  her  deceive ! 
"  But  let   me   laugh    awhile,   I've    mickle    time    to 
grieve." 

xv. 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  clos'd  a  wond'rous  riddle-book, 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold, 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

XVI. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 


EVE    OF  ST.   AGNES.  217 

Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art : 
"  Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep,  and  dream 
"  Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
"  From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go! —  1  deem 
"  Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst 
seem." 

XVII. 

"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro  :  "  O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
"  When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
"  If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
"  Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face : 
"  Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 
"  Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
"  Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
"  And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd  than 
wolves  and  bears." 

XVIII. 

"  Ah!  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul? 
"  A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing, 
"  Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll ; 
"  Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 
"Were  never  miss'd."  —  Thus  plaining,  doth  she 

bring 

A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro ; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 

XIX. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 


2l8  EVE    OF  ST.   AGNES. 

While  legion'd  fairies  pac'd  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt. 

xx. 

"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  Dame  : 
'  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
'  Quickly  on  this  feast-night :  by  the  tambour  frame 
'  Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see  :  no  time  to  spare, 
'  For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
'  On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
'  Wait  here,  my  child,   with   patience ;    kneel   in 
prayer 

"  The  while  :  Ah !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
"  Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 

XXI. 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd ; 
The  dame  return'd,  and  whispered  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hush'd,  and  chaste ; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleas'd  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 

XXII. 

Her  falt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware : 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  fray'd  and 
fled. 


EVE   OF  ST.   AGNES.  219 

XXIII. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died : 
She  clos'd  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide : 
No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side ; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
rier  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her  dell. 


A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  dewce, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd  wings ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blwsh'd  with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings. 

XXV. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven :  —  Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint 

XXVI. 

Anon  his  heart  revives  :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  boddice ;  by  degrees 


220  EVE    OF  ST.   AGNES. 

Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees  : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 

XXVII. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest. 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day ; 
Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  pain  ; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

XXVIII. 

Stol'n  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And  listen'd  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness  ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 
And  breath'd  himself:  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo!  —  how  fast 
she  slept. 

XXIX. 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  taded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet :  — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  :  — 
The  hall  door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 


EVE    OF  ST.   AGNES.  221 

XXX. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedard  Lebanon. 

XXXI. 

These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver  :  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light.  — 
"And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake! 
"  Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite : 
"  Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes1  sake, 
"Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache." 

XXXII. 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains  :  —  'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream  : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies  : 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  stedfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes : 
So  mus'd  awhile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute.  — 
Tumultuous,  —  and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  call'd,  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy :  " 


222  EVE    OF  ST.   AGNES. 

Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody ;  — 
Wherewith  disturb'd,  she  utter'd  a  soft  moan : 
He  ceased  —  she  panted  quick  —  and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone  : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured 
stone. 

xxxiv. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep  : 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh  ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  looked  so  dreamingly. 

XXXV. 

"Ah,  Porphyro! "  said  she,  "but  even  now 

"  Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 

"  Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow ; 

"  And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear : 

"How   chang'd   thou   art!   how  pallid,  chill,   and 

drear! 

"Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
"Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear! 
"  Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
"  For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where  to  go." 

XXXVI. 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet,  — 
Solution  sweet :  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes ;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath  set. 


EVE   OF  ST.  AGNES.  223 

XXXVII. 

Tis  dark  :  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet : 
'This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline!" 
Tis  dark  :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
'No  dream,  alas!  alas!  and  woe  is  mine! 
'  Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine.  — 
'Cruel!  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring? 
"  I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
"  Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing ;  — 
"  A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned  wing." 

XXXVIII. 

"My  Madeline!  sweet  dreamer!  lovely  bride! 

"  Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest? 

"Thy  beauty's  shield,   heart-shap'd  and   vermeil 

dyed? 

"  Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
"  After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
"  A  famishM  pilgrim,  —  saved  by  miracle. 
"  Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
"  Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st  well 
"  To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel." 

XXXIX. 

"  Hark!  'tis  an  elfin-storm  from  faery  land, 
"  Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed : 
"  Arise  —  arise !  the  morning  is  at  hand ;  — 
"  The  bloated  wassaillers  will  never  heed :  — 
"  Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
"  There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see,  — 
"  Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead : 
"  Awake !  arise !  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 
"  For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 

XL. 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 


224  EVE    OF  ST.   AGNES. 

At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears  — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found. — 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-droop'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door ; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and  hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar ; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 

XLI. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ; 
Like  phantoms,  to  the  iron  porch,  they  glide ; 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flaggon  by  his  side : 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide, 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide :  — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones  ;  — 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 


And  they  are  gone  :  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmar'd.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  deform ; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
For  aye  unsought  for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


POEMS. 


ODE   TO  A   NIGHTINGALE. 


MY  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk : 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happiness,  — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 


O,  for  a  draught  of  vintage!  that  hath  been 

CooPd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sunburnt  mirth  ! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim : 

225 


226  POEMS. 


Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan  ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 

And  leaden-eyed  despairs, 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 


4- 

Away!  away!  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards : 
Already  with  thee !  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays  ; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways. 


I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild  ; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine  ; 
Fast  fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves  ; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 


POEMS.  227 

6. 

Darkling  I  listen  ;  and,  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Caird  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain  — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 


Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 

The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 


Forlorn!  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self ! 
Adieu!  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  farrTd  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu!  adieu!  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side  ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 

In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music :  —  Do  I  wake  or  sleep? 


228  POEMS. 

ODE   ON   A   GRECIAN   URN. 


THOU  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 
What  leaf-fring'd  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?    What  maidens  loth  ? 
What  mad  pursuit  ?     What  struggle  to  escape  ? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?     What  wild  ecstasy  ? 


Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on  ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone  : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal  —  yet,  do  not  grieve  ; 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair! 

3- 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs!  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu ; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new  ; 
More  happy  love!  more  happy,  happy  love! 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd, 

For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy'd. 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 


POEMS.  229 

4- 
Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be  ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

5- 
O  Attic  shape!     Fair  attitude!  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed ; 

Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity  :     Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,11  —  that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 


ODE  TO   PSYCHE. 

0  GODDESS  !  hear  these  tuneless  numbers,  wrung 
By  sweet  enforcement  and  remembrance  dear, 

And  pardon  that  thy  secrets  should  be  sung 
Even  into  thine  own  soft-conched  ear : 

Surely  I  dreamt  to-day,  or  did  I  see 
The  winged  Psyche  with  awaken'd  eyes  ? 

1  wander'd  in  a  forest  thoughtlessly, 

And,  on  the  sudden,  fainting  with  surprise, 
Saw  two  fair  creatures,  couched  side  by  side 
In  deepest  grass,  beneath  the  whisp'ring  roof 


230  POEMS. 

Of  leaves  and  trembled  blossoms,  where  there  ran 

A  brooklet,  scarce  espied  : 
'Mid  hush'd,  cool-rooted  flowers,  fragrant-eyed, 

Blue,  silver-white,  and  budded  Tyrian, 
They  lay  calm-breathing  on  the  bedded  grass ; 

Their  arms  embraced,  and  their  pinions  too ; 

Their  lips  touched  not,  but  had  not  bade  adieu, 
As  if  disjoined  by  soft-handed  slumber, 
And  ready  still  past  kisses  to  outnumber 

At  tender  eye-dawn  of  aurorean  love  : 
The  winged  boy  I  knew ; 

But  who  wast  thou,  O  happy,  happy  dove? 

His  Psyche  true  ! 
O  latest  born  and  loveliest  vision  far 

Of  all  Olympus'  faded  hierarchy! 
Fairer  than  Phoebe's  sapphire-region'd  star, 

Or  Vesper,  amorous  glow-worm  of  the  sky ; 
Fairer  than  these,  though  temple  thou  hast  none, 

Nor  altar  heap'd  with  flowers  ; 
Nor  virgin-choir  to  make  delicious  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours  ; 
No  voice,  no  lute,  no  pipe,  no  incense  sweet 

From  chain-swung  censer  teeming ; 
No  shrine,  no  grove,  no  oracle,  no  heat 

Of  pale-mouth'd  prophet  dreaming. 

0  brightest !  though  too  late  for  antique  vows, 
Too,  too  late  for  the  fond  believing  lyre, 

When  holy  were  the  haunted  forest  boughs, 
Holy  the  air,  the  water,  and  the  fire ; 

Yet  even  in  these  days  so  far  retir'd 
From  happy  pieties,  thy  lucent  fans, 
Fluttering  among  the  faint  Olympians, 

1  see,  and  sing,  by  my  own  eyes  inspired. 
So  let  me  be  thy  choir,  and  make  a  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours  ; 
Thy  voice,  thy  lute,  thy  pipe,  thy  incense  sweet 

From  swinged  censer  teeming ; 
Thy  shrine,  thy  grove,  thy  oracle,  thy  heat 

Of  pale-mouth'd  prophet  dreamnig. 


POEMS.  231 

Yes,  I  will  be  thy  priest,  and  build  a  fane 

In  some  untrodden  region  of  my  mind, 
Where  branched  thoughts,  new  .grown  with  pleasant 
pain, 

Instead  of  pines  shall  murmur  in  the  wind : 
Far,  far  around  shall  those  dark-cluster'd  trees 

Fledge  the  wild-ridged  mountains  steep  by  steep ; 
And  there  by  zephyrs,  streams,  and  birds,  and  bees, 

The  moss-lain  Dryads  shall  be  lull'd  to  sleep ; 
And  in  the  midst  of  this  wide  quietness 
A  rosy  sanctuary  will  I  dress 
With  the  wreath'd  trellis  of  a  working  brain, 

With  buds,  and  bells,  and  stars  without  a  name, 
With  all  the  gardener  Fancy  e'er  could  feign, 

Who  breeding  flowers,  will  never  breed  the  same : 
And  there  shall  be  for  thee  all  soft  delight 

That  shadowy  thought  can  win, 
A  bright  torch,  and  a  casement  ope  at  night, 

To  let  the  warm  Love  in  ! 


FANCY. 

EVER  let  the  Fancy  roam. 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home : 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth, 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth ; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 

Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond  her: 

Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, 

She'll  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 

O  sweet  Fancy!  let  her  loose ; 

Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 

And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 

Fades  as  does  its  blossoming ; 

Autumn's  red-lipp'd  fruitage  too, 

Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 


POEMS. 

Cloys  with  tasting :  What  do  then  ? 

Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 

The  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 

Spirit  of  a  winters  night ; 

When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 

And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 

From  the  ploughboy's  heavy  shoon ; 

When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 

In  a  dark  conspiracy 

To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 

Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad. 

With  a  mind  self-overaw'd, 

Fancy,  high-commission'd :  —  send  her! 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her : 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 

Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost ; 

She  will  bring  thee,  all  together, 

All  delights  of  summer  weather ; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray ; 

All  the  heaped  Autumn's  wealth, 

With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth  : 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 

Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 

And  thou  shalt  quaff  it :  —  thou  shalt  hear 

Distant  harvest-carols  clear ; 

Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn  ; 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn : 

And,  in  the  same  moment —  hark! 

'Tis  the  early  April  lark, 

Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 

Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 

Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 

The  daisy  and  the  marigold ; 

White-plum'd  lilies,  and  the  first 

Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst ; 

Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 

Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May ; 

And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 


POEMS.  233 

Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 
Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 
Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep ; 
And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 
Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin ; 
Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 
Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree, 
When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 
Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 
Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm ; 
Acorns  ripe  down-pattering, 
While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 

Oh,  sweet  Fancy!  let  her  loose ; 
Every  thing  is  spoilt  by  use  : 
Where's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 
Too  much  gaz'd  at  ?     Where's  the  maid 
Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new  ? 
Where's  the  eye,  however  blue, 
Doth  not  weary?    Where's  the  face 
One  would  meet  in  every  place  ? 
Where's  the  voice,  however  soft, 
One  would  hear  so  very  oft? 
At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 
Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 
Let,  then,  winged  Fancy  find 
Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind : 
Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter, 
Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 
How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide ; 
With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 
White  as  Hebe's,  when  her  zone 
Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 
Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet, 
While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 
And  Jove  grew  languid.  —  Break  the  mesh 
Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash ; 


234  POEMS. 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string 
And  such  joys  as  these  she'll  bring.  — 
Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam, 
Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 


ODE. 

BARDS  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too. 
Double-lived  in  regions  new? 
Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon ; 
With  the  noise  of  fountains  wond'rous, 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thund'rous  ; 
With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Brows'd  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns ; 
Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not ; 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing, 
But  divine  melodious  truth  ; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth ; 
Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again ; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you, 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumber'd,  never  cloying. 


POEMS.  235 

Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week ; 
Of  their  sorrows  and  delights  ; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites ; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame ; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day, 
Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new! 


LINES  ON   THE   MERMAID  TAVERN 

SOULS  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine? 
Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison  ?     O  generous  food ! 
Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 
Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host's  sign-board  flew  away, 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till 
An  astrologer's  old  quill 
To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story, 
Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 


236  POEMS. 

Underneath  a  new  old-sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine, 
And  pledging  with  contented  smack 
The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 


ROBIN   HOOD. 

TO  A   FRIEND. 

No!  those  days  are  gone  away, 
And  their  hours  are  old  and  gray, 
And  their  minutes  buried  all 
Under  the  down-trodden  pall 
Of  the  leaves  of  many  years  : 
Many  times  have  winter's  shears, 
Frozen  North,  and  chilling  East, 
Sounded  tempests  to  the  feast 
Of  the  forest's  whispering  fleeces, 
Since  men  knew  nor  rent  nor  leases. 

No,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more, 
And  the  twanging  bow  no  more ; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill 
Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill ; 
There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh, 
Where  lone  Echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  wight,  amaz'd  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear. 

On  the  fairest  time  of  June 
You  may  go,  with  sun  or  moon, 


POEMS.  237 

Or  the  seven  stars  to  light  you, 
Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  you ; 
But  you  never  may  behold 
Little  John,  or  Robin  bold ; 
Never  one,  of  all  the  clan, 
Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 
Some  old  hunting  ditty,  while 
He  doth  his  green  way  beguile 
To  fair  hostess  Merriment. 
Down  beside  the  pasture  Trent ; 
For  he  left  the  merry  tale 
Messenger  for  spicy  ale. 

Gone,  the  merry  morris  din ; 
Gone,  the  song  of  Gamelyn ; 
Gone,  the  tough-belted  outlaw 
Idling  in  the  "grene  shawe;" 
All  are  gone  away  and  past! 
And  if  Robin  should  be  cast 
Sudden  from  his  turfed  grave, 
And  if  Marian  should  have 
Once  again  her  forest  days, 
She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze : 
He  would  swear,  for  all  his  oaks, 
Fall'n  beneath  the  dockyard  strokes, 
Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas ; 
She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 
Sang  not  to  her  — strange!  that  honey 
Can't  be  got  without  hard  money! 

So  it  is :  yet  let  us  sing, 
Honor  to  the  old  bow-string! 
Honor  to  the  bugte-horn! 
Honor  to  the  woods  unshorn! 
Honor  to  the  Lincoln  Green! 
Honor  to  the  archer  keen! 
Honor  to  tight  Little  John, 
And  the  horse  he  rode  upon! 


238  POEMS. 

Honor  to  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Sleeping  in  the  underwood! 
Honor  to  Maid  Marian, 
And  to  all  the  Sherwood-clan! 
Though  their  days  have  hurried  by, 
Let  us  two  a  burden  try. 


TO   AUTUMN. 

i. 

SEASON  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun  ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eves  run ; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

For   Summer   has   o'er-brimm'd    their    clammy 
cells. 

2. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft -lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind  ; 
Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drows'd  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers  : 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ; 

Or  by  a  cyder-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings  hours  by  hours. 


POEMS.  239 


Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?  Ay,  where  are  they? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue'; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies ; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn : 

Hedge-crickets  sing ;  and  now  with  treble  soft 

The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft ; 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 


ODE   ON   MELANCHOLY. 


No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 

Wolf  s-bane,  tight-rooted,  for  its  poisonous  wine ; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kiss'd 

By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proserpine ; 
Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries, 

Nor  let  the  beetle,  nor  the  death-moth  be 

Your  mournful  Psyche,  nor  the  downy  owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries ; 

For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drowsily, 
And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the  soul. 


But  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 

Sudden  from  heaven  like  a  weeping  cloud, 

That  fosters  the  droop-headed  flowers  all, 
And  hides  the  green  hill  in  an  April  shroud ; 


240  POEMS. 

Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose, 
Or  on  the  rainbow  of  the  salt  sand-wave, 

Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies  ; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 
Emprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave, 
And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peerless  eyes. 


She  dwells  with  Beauty —  Beauty  that  must  die; 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu  ;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh, 

Turning  to  poison  while  the  bee-mouth  sips  : 
Ay,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 

Veil'd  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine, 

Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose  strenuous 

tongue 

Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine ; 
His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her  might, 
And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies  hung. 


HYPERION. 

A  FRAGMENT. 
BOOK    I. 

DEEP  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 

Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn, 

Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve's  one  star, 

Sat  gray-hair'd  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, 

Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair ; 

Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 

Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there, 

Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 

Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd  grass, 

But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest. 

A  stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deadened  more 

By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 

Spreading  a  shade :  the  Naiad  'mid  her  reeds 

Press'd  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the  margin-sand  large  foot-marks  went, 
No  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had  stray'd, 
And  slept  there  since.     Upon  the  sodden  ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 
Unsceptred ;  and  his  realmless  eyes  were  closed ; 
While  his  bow'd  head  seem'd  list'ning  to  the  Earth, 
His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 

It  seem'd  no  force  could  wake  him  from  his  place; 
But  there  came  one,  who  with  a  kindred  hand 

241 


242  HYPERION.  BOOK  i. 

Touch'd  his  wide  shoulders,  after  bending  low 
With  reverence,  though  to  one  who  knew  it  not. 
She  was  a  Goddess  of  the  infant  world ; 
By  her  in  stature  the  tall  Amazon 
Had  stood  a  pigmy's  height :  she  would  have  ta'en 
Achilles  by  the  hair  and  bent  his  neck ; 
Or  with  a  finger  stay'd  Ixion's  wheel. 
Her  face  was  large  as  that  of  Memphian  sphinx, 
Pedestaled  haply  in  a  palace  court, 
When  sages  look'd  to  Egypt  for  their  lore. 
But  oh!  how  unlike  marble  was  that  face  : 
How  beautiful,  if  sorrow  had  not  made 
Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  Beauty's  self. 
There  was  a  listening  fear  in  her  regard, 
As  if  calamity  had  but  begun  ; 
As  if  the  vanward  clouds  of  evil  days 
Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen  rear 
Was  with  its  stored  thunder  laboring  up. 
One  hand  she  press'd  upon  that  aching  spot 
Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just  there, 
Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain  : 
The  other  upon  Saturn's  bended  neck 
She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 
Leaning  with  parted  lips,  some  words  she  spake 
In  solemn  tenor  and  deep  organ  tone : 
Some  mourning  words,  which  in  our  feeble  tongue 
Would  come  in  these  like  accents ;  O  how  frail 
To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  Gods ! 
"  Saturn,  look  up!  —  though  wherefore,  poor  old  King? 
'  I  have  no  comfort  for  thee,  no  not  one : 
'  I  cannot  say,  '  O  wherefore  sleepest  thou?  ' 
'  For  heaven  is  parted  from  thee,  and  the  earth 
'  Knows  thee  not,  thus  afflicted,  for  a  God  ; 
'  And  ocean  too,  with  all  its  solemn  noise, 
1  Has  from  thy  sceptre  pass'd  ;  and  all  the  air 
'  Is  emptied  of  thine  hoary  majesty. 
'  Thy  thunder,  conscious  of  the  new  command, 
'  Rumbles  reluctant  o'er  our  fallen  house  ; 
'  And  thy  sharp  lightning  in  unpractised  hands 


BOOK  i.  HYPERION.  243 

"  Scorches  and  burns  our  once  serene  domain. 
'•  O  aching  time!  O  moments  big  as  years! 

1  All  as  ye  pass  swell  out  the  monstrous  truth, 

'  And  press  it  so  upon  our  weary  griefs 

'  That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 

'  Saturn,  sleep  on :  —  O  thoughtless,  why  did  I 

'  Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude  ? 

'  Why  should  I  ope  thy  melancholy  eyes  ? 

'  Saturn,  sleep  on !  while  at  thy  feet  I  weep." 

As  when,  upon  a  tranced  summer-night, 
Those  green-rob'd  senators  of  mighty  woods, 
Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars, 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  stir, 
Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  off, 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave ; 
So  came  these  words  and  went ;  the  while  in  tears 
She  touch'd  her  fair  large  forehead  to  the  ground, 
Just  where  her  falling  hair  might  be  outspread 
A  soft  and  silken  mat  for  Saturn's  feet. 
One  moon,  with  alteration  slow,  had  shed 
Her  silver  seasons  four  upon  the  night, 
And  still  these  two  were  postured  motionless, 
Like  natural  sculpture  in  cathedral  cavern ; 
The  frozen  God  still  couchant  on  the  earth, 
And  the  sad  Goddess  weeping  at  his  feet : 
Until  at  length  old  Saturn  lifted  up 
His  faded  eyes,  and  saw  his  kingdom  gone, 
And  all  the  gloom  and  sorrow  of  the  place, 
And  that  fair  kneeling  Goddess  ;  and  then  spake 
As  with  a  palsied  tongue,  and  while  his  beard 
Shook  horrid  with  such  aspen-malady : 
"  O  tender  spouse  of  gold  Hyperion, 
"  Thea,  I  feel  thee  ere  1  see  thy  face ; 
"  Look  up,  and  let  me  see  our  doom  in  it ; 
"  Look  up,  and  tell  me  if  this  feeble  shape 
"  Is  Saturn's  ;  tell  me,  if  thou  hear'st  the  voice 
"  Of  Saturn  ;  tell  me,  if  this  wrinkling  brow 


244  HYPERION.  BOOK  i. 

"  Naked  and  bare  of  its  great  diadem, 
"  Peers  like  the  front  of  Saturn.     Who  had  power 
"  To  make  me  desolate  ?  whence  came  the  strength  ? 
"  How  was  it  nurtur'd  to  such  bursting  forth, 
"  While  Fate  seem'd  strangled  in  my  nervous  grasp  ? 
"  But  it  is  so  ;  and  I  am  smother'd  up, 
"  And  buried  from  all  godlike  exercise 
"  Of  influence  benign  on  planets  pale, 
"  Of  admonitions  to  the  winds  and  seas, 
"  Of  peaceful  sway  above  man's  harvesting, 
"  And  all  those  acts  which  Deity  supreme 
"  Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in.  —  I  am  gone 
"  Away  from  my  own  bosom  :  I  have  left 
"  My  strong  identity,  my  real  self, 
"  Somewhere  between  the  throne,  and  where  I  sit 
"  Here  on  this  spot  of  earth.     Search,  Thea,  search! 
"  Open  thine  eyes  eterne,  and  sphere  them  round 
•  Upon  all  space  :  space  starred,  and  lorn  of  light ; 
'  Space  region'd  with  life-air ;  and  barren  void  ; 
'  Spaces  of  fire,  and  all  the  yawn  of  hell.  — 
'  Search,  Thea,  search !  and  tell  me,  if  thou  seest 
'  A  certain  shape  or  shadow,  making  way 
'  With  wings  or  chariot  fierce  to  repossess 
'  A  heaven  he  lost  erewhile  :  it  must  —  it  must 
'  Be  of  ripe  progress  —  Saturn  must  be  King. 
'  Yes,  there  must  be  a  golden  victory ; 
'  There  must  be  Gods  thrown  down,  and  trumpets 

blown 

"  Of  triumph  calm,  and  hymns  of  festival 
"  Upon  the  gold  clouds  metropolitan, 
"  Voices  of  soft  proclaim,  and  silver  stir 
"  Of  strings  in  hollow  shells  ;  and  there  shall  be 
"  Beautiful  things  made  new,  for  the  surprise 
"  Of  the  sky-children  ;  I  will  give  command  : 
"Thea!  Thea!  Thea!  where  is  Saturn?" 

This  passion  lifted  him  upon  his  feet, 
And  made  his  hands  to  struggle  in  the  air, 
His  Druid  locks  to  shake  and  ooze  with  sweat. 


BOOK  i.  HYPERION.  245 

His  eyes  to  fever  out,  his  voice  to  cease. 

He  stood,  and  heard  not  Thea's  sobbing  deep ; 

A  little  time,  and  then  again  he  snatch'd 

Utterance  thus.  —  "  But  cannot  I  create? 

"  Cannot  I  form  ?     Cannot  I  fashion  forth 

"  Another  world,  another  universe, 

"To  overbear  and  crumble  this  to  nought? 

"  Where  is  another  chaos  ?    Where  ? "  —  That  word 

Found  way  unto  Olympus,  and  made  quake 

The  rebel  three.  —  Thea  was  startled  up, 

And  in  her  bearing  was  a  sort  of  hope, 

As  thus  she  quick-voic'd  spake,  yet  full  of  awe. 

"  This  cheers  our  fallen  house :  come  to  our  friends, 
"  O  Saturn !  come  away,  and  give  them  heart ; 
V  I  know  the  covert,  for  thence  came  I  hither." 
Thus  brief;  then  with  beseeching  eyes  she  went 
With  backward  footing  through  the  shade  a  space : 
He  follow'd,  and  she  turn'd  to  lead  the  way 
Through  aged  boughs,  that  yielded  like  the  mist 
Which  eagles  cleave  upmounting  from  their  nest. 

Meanwhile  in  other  realms  big  tears  were  shed, 
More  sorrow  like  to  this,  and  such  like  woe, 
Too  huge  for  mortal  tongue  or  pen  of  scribe : 
The  Titans  fierce,  self-hid,  or  prison-bound, 
Groan'd  for  the  old  allegiance  once  more, 
And  listen'd  in  sharp  pain  for  Saturn's  voice. 
But  one  of  the  whole  mammoth-brood  still  kept 
His  sovereignty,  and  rule,  and  majesty ;  — 
Blazing  Hyperion  on  his  orbed  fire 
Still  sat,  still  snuff 'd  the  incense,  teeming  up 
From  man  to  the  sun's  God  ;  yet  unsecure : 
For  as  among  us  mortals  omens  drear 
Fright  and  perplex,  so  also  shuddered  he  — 
Not  at  dog's  howl,  or  gloom-bird's  hated  screech, 
Or  the  familiar  visiting  of  one 
Upon  the  first  toll  of  his  passing-bell, 


246  HYPERION.  BOOK  i 

Or  prophesyings  of  the  midnight  lamp  : 

But  horrors,  portiorTd  to  a  giant  nerve, 

Oft  made  Hyperion  ache.     His  palace  bright 

Bastion'd  with  pyramids  of  glowing  gold, 

And  touched  with  shade  of  bronzed  obelisks, 

Glar'd  a  blood-red  through  all  its  thousand  courts, 

Arches,  and  domes,  and  fiery  galleries : 

And  all  its  curtains  of  Aurorian  clouds 

Flush'd  angerly  :  while  sometimes  eagle's  wings, 

Unseen  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men, 

Darken'd  the  place  ;  and  neighing  steeds  were  heard. 

iJot  heard  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men. 

Also,  when  he  would  taste  the  spicy  wreaths 

Of  incense,  breath'd  aloft  from  sacred  hills, 

Instead  of  sweets,  his  ample  palate  took 

Savor  of  poisonous  brass  and  metal  sick  : 

And  so,  when  harbor'd  in  the  sleepy  west, 

After  the  full  completion  of  fair  day,  — 

For  rest  divine  upon  exalted  couch 

And  slumber  in  the  arms  of  melody, 

He  pac'd  away  the  pleasant  hours  of  ease 

With  stride  colossal,  on  from  hall  to  hall ; 

While  far  within  each  aisle  and  deep  recess, 

His  winged  minions  in  close  clusters  stood, 

Amaz'd  and  full  of  fear ;  like  anxious  men 

Who  on  wide  plains  gather  in  panting  troops. 

When  earthquakes  jar  their  battlements  and  towers 

Even  now,  while  Saturn,  rous'd  from  icy  trance. 

Went  step  for  step  with  Thea  through  the  woods, 

Hyperion,  leaving  twilight  in  the  rear, 

Came  slope  upon  the  threshold  of  the  west ; 

Then,  as  was  wont,  his  palace-door  flew  ope 

In  smoothest  silence,  save  what  solemn  tubes, 

Blown  by  the  serious  Zephyrs,  gave  of  sweet 

And  wandering  sounds,  slow-breathed  melodies ; 

And  like  a  rose  in  vermeil  tint  and  shape, 

In  fragrance  soft,  and  coolness  to  the  eye, 

That  inlet  to  severe  magnificence 

Stood  full  blown,  for  the  God  to  enter  in. 


BOOK  i.  HYPERION.  247 

He  entered,  but  he  enterM  full  of  wrath  ; 
His  flaming  robes  stream'd  out  beyond  his  heels. 
And  gave  a  roar,  as  if  of  earthly  fire, 
That  scar'd  away  the  meek  ethereal  Hours 
And  made  their  dove-wings  tremble.     On  he  flared. 
From  stately  nave  to  nave,  from  vault  to  vault, 
Through  bowers  of  fragrant  and  enwreathed  light, 
And  diamond-paved  lustrous  long  arcades, 
Until  he  reached  the  great  main  cupola ; 
There  standing  fierce  beneath,  he  stampt  his  foot, 
And  from  the  basements  deep  to  the  high  towers 
Jarr'd  his  own  golden  region ;  and  before 
The  quavering  thunder  thereupon  had  ceas'd, 
His  voice  leapt  out,  despite  of  godlike  curb, 
To  this  result :  "  O  dreams  of  day  and  night! 
"O  monstrous  forms!     O  effigies  of  pain! 
'  O  spectres  busy  in  a  cold,  cold  gloom! 
O  lank-ear'd  Phantoms  of  black-weeded  pools! 
Why  do  I  know  ye?  why  have  I  seen  ye?  why 
Is  my  eternal  essence  thus  distraught 
'To  see  and  to  behold  these  horrors  new? 
'  Saturn  is  fallen,  am  I  too  to  fall? 
<  Am  I  to  leave  this  haven  of  my  rest, 
This  cradle  of  my  glory,  this  soft  clime, 
This  calm  luxuriance  of  blissful  light, 
'  These  crystalline  pavilions,  and  pure  fanes, 
'Of  all  my  lucent  empire?     It  is  left 
1  Deserted,  void,  nor  any  haunt  of  mine. 
'  The  blaze,  the  splendor,  and  the  symmetry, 
'  I  cannot  see  —  but  darkness,  death  and  darkness, 
'  Even  here,  into  my  centre  of  repose, 
'  The  shady  visions  come  to  domineer, 
'  Insult,  and  blind,  and  stifle  up  my  pomp.— 
'  Fall!  —  No,  by  Tellus  and  her  briny  robes! 
'  Over  the  fiery  frontier  of  my  realms 
'  I  will  advance  a  terrible  right  arm 
'  Shall  scare  that  infant  thunderer,  rebel  Jove, 
'And  bid  old  Saturn  take  his  throne  again."- 
He  spake,  and  ceas'd,  the  while  a  heavier  threat 


248  HYPERION.  BOOK  I. 

Held  struggle  with  his  throat  but  came  not  forth  : 

For  as  in  theatres  of  crowded  men 

Hubbub  increases  more  they  call  out  "  Hush ! v 

So  at  Hyperion's  words  the  Phantoms  pale 

Bestirr'd  themselves,  thrice  horrible  and  cold ; 

And  from  the  mirror'd  level  where  he  stood 

A  mist  arose,  as  from  a  scummy  marsh. 

At  this,  through  all  his  bulk  an  agony 

Crept  gradual,  from  the  feet  unto  the  crown, 

Like  a  lithe  serpent  vast  and  muscular 

Making  slow  way,  with  head  and  neck  convuls'd 

From  over-strained  might.     Rele'as'd,  he  fled 

To  the  eastern  gates,  and  full  six  dewy  hours 

Before  the  dawn  in  season  due  should  blush, 

He  breath'd  fierce  breath  against  the  sleepy  portals, 

Clear'd  them  of  heavy  vapors,  burst  them  wide 

Suddenly  on  the  ocean's  chilly  streams. 

The  planet  orb  of  fire,  whereon  he  rode 

Each  day  from  east  to  west  the  heavens  through, 

Spun  round  in  sable  curtaining  of  clouds  : 

Not  therefore  veiled  quite,  blindfold,  and  hid, 

But  ever  and  anon  the  glancing  spheres, 

Circles,  and  arcs,  and  broad-belting  colure, 

Glow'd  through,  and  wrought  upon  the  muffling  dark 

Sweet-shaped  lightnings  from  the  nadir  deep 

Up  to  the  zenith,  —  hieroglyphics  old, 

Which  sages  and  keen-eyed  astrologers 

Then  living  on  the  earth,  with  laboring  thought 

Won  from  the  gaze  of  many  centuries  : 

Now  lost,  save  what  we  find  on  remnants  huge 

Of  stone,  or  marble  swart ;  their  import  gone, 

Their  wisdom  long  since  fled.  —  Two  wings  this  orb 

Possessed  for  glory,  two  fair  argent  wings, 

Ever  exalted  at  the  God's  approach  : 

And  now,  from  forth  the  gloom  their  plumes  immense 

Rose,  one  by  one,  till  all  outspreaded  were ; 

While  still  the  dazzling  globe  maintain'd  eclipse, 

Awaiting  for  Hyperion's  command. 

Fain  would  he  have  commanded,  fain  took  throne 


BOOK  i.  HYPERION.  249 

And  bid  the  day  begin,  if  but  for  change. 
He  might  not :  —  No,  though  a  primeval  God : 
The  sacred  seasons  might  not  be  disturb'd. 
Therefore  the  operations  of  the  dawn 
Stayed  in  their  birth,  even  as  here  'tis  told. 
Those  silver  wings  expanded  sisterly, 
Eager  to  sail  their  orb ;  the  porches  wide 
Open'd  upon  the  dusk  demesnes  of  night ; 
And  the  bright  Titan,  phrenzied  with  new  woes, 
Unus'd  to  bend,  by  hard  compulsion  bent 
His  spirit  to  the  sorrow  of  the  time ; 
And  all  along  a  dismal  rack  of  clouds, 
Upon  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night, 
He  stretch'd  himself  in  grief  and  radiance  faint. 
There  as  he  lay,  the  Heaven  with  its  stars 
Look'd  down  on  him  with  pity,  and  the  voice 
Of  Ccelus,  from  the  universal  space, 
Thus  whisper'd  low  and  solemn  in  his  ear. 
'  O  brightest  of  my  children  dear,  earth-born 
'  And  sky-engendered,  Son  of  Mysteries 
'  All  unrevealed  even  to  the  powers 
;  Which  met  at  thy  creating ;  at  whose  joys 
'And  palpitations  sweet,  and  pleasures  soft, 
'  I,  Coelus,  wonder,  how  they  came  and  whence ; 
'  And  at  the  fruits  thereof  what  shapes  they  be, 
'  Distinct,  and  visible  ;  symbols  divine, 
'  Manifestations  of  that  beauteous  life 
'  Diffused  unseen  throughout  eternal  space : 
'  Of  these  new-form' d  art  thou,  oh  brightest  child! 
1  Of  these,  thy  brethren  and  the  Goddesses! 
'  There  is  sad  feud  among  ye,  and  rebellion 
'  Of  son  against  his  sire.     I  saw  him  fall, 
'  I  saw  my  first-born  tumbled  from  his  throne! 
'  To  me  his  arms  were  spread,  to  me  his  voice 
<  Found  way  from  forth  the  thunders  round  his  head! 
'  Pale  wox  I,  and  in  vapors  hid  my  face. 
'  Art  thou,  too,  near  such  doom  ?  vague  fear  there  is : 
•  For  I  have  seen  my  sons  most  unlike  Gods. 
'  Divine  ye  were  created,  and  divine 


250  HYPERION.  BOOK  i. 

'  In  sad  demeanor,  solemn,  undisturb'd, 
'  Unruffled,  like  high  Gods,  ye  liv'd  and  ruled : 
'  Now  I  behold  in  you  fear,  hope,  and  wrath ; 
'  Actions  of  rage  and  passion  ;  even  as 
'  I  see  them,  on  the  mortal  world  beneath, 
'  In  men  who  die.  —  This  is  the  grief,  O  Son! 
'  Sad  sign  of  ruin,  sudden  dismay,  and  fall ! 
'  Yet  do  thou  strive  ;  as  thou  art  capable, 
'  As  thou  canst  move  about,  an  evident  God  ; 
<  And  canst  oppose  to  each  malignant  hour 
'  Ethereal  presence :  —  I  am  but  a  voice  ; 
'  My  life  is  but  the  life  of  winds  and  tides, 
'  No  more  than  winds  and  tides  can  I  avail :  — 
'  But  thou  canst.  —  Be  thou  therefore  in  the  van 
'  Of  circumstance  ;  yea,  seize  the  arrow's  barb 
'  Before  the  tense  string  murmur.  —  To  the  earth ! 
'  For  there  thou  wilt  find  Saturn,  and  his  woes. 
'  Meantime  I  will  keep  watch  on  thy  bright  sun, 
•  And  of  thy  seasons  be  a  careful  nurse."  — 
Ere  half  this  region-whisper  had  come  down, 
Hyperion  arose,  and  on  the  stars 
Lifted  his  curved  lids,  and  kept  them  wide 
Until  it  ceas'd  ;  and  still  he  kept  them  wide  : 
And  still  they  were  the  same  bright,  patient  stars 
Then  with  a  slow  incline  of  his  broad  breast, 
Like  to  a  diver  in  the  pearly  seas, 
Forward  he  stoop'd  over  the  airy  shore, 
And  plung'd  all  noiseless  into  the  deep  night. 


HYPERION. 


BOOK   II. 

JUST  at  the  self-same  beat  of  Time's  wide  wings 

Hyperion  slid  into  the  rustled  air, 

And  Saturn  gain'd  with  Thea  that  sad  place 

Where  Cybele  and  the  bruised  Titans  mourn'd. 

It  was  a  den  where  no  insulting  light 

Could  glimmer  on  their  tears  ;  where  their  own  groans 

They  felt,  but  heard  not,  for  the  solid  roar 

Of  thunderous  waterfalls  and  torrents  hoarse, 

Pouring  a  constant  bulk,  uncertain  where. 

Crag  jutting  forth  to  crag,  and  rocks  that  seem'd 

Ever  as  if  just  rising  from  a  sleep, 

Forehead  to  forehead  held  their  monstrous  horns ; 

And  thus  in  thousand  hugest  phantasies 

Made  a  fit  roofing  to  this  nest  of  woe. 

Instead  of  thrones,  hard  flint  they  sat  upon, 

Couches  of  rugged  stone,  and  slaty  ridge 

Stubborn'd  with  iron.     All  were  not  assembled : 

Some  chain'd  in  torture,  and  some  wandering. 

Coeus,  and  Gyges,  and  Briareus, 

Typhon,  and  Dolor,  and  Porphyrion, 

With  many  more,  the  brawniest  in  assault, 

Were  pent  in  regions  of  laborious  breath ; 

Dungeon'd  in  opaque  element,  to  keep 

Their  clenched  teeth  still  clench'd,  and  all  their  limbs 

Lock'd  up  like  veins  of  metal,  crampt  and  screw'd ; 

Without  a  motion,  save  of  their  big  hearts 

Heaving  in  pain,  and  horribly  convuls'd 


252  HYPERION.  BOOK  I 

With  sanguine  feverous  boiling  gurge  of  pulse. 

Mnemosyne  was  straying  in  the  world ; 

Far  from  her  moon  had  Phrebe  wandered  ; 

And  many  else  were  free  to  roam  abroad, 

But  for  the  main,  here  found  they  covert  drear. 

Scarce  images  of  life,  one  here,  one  there, 

Lay  vast  and  edgeways  ;  like  a  dismal  cirque 

Of  Druid  stones,  upon  a  forlorn  moor, 

When  the  chill  rain  begins  at  shut  of  eve, 

In  dull  November,  and  their  chancel  vault, 

The  Heaven  itself,  is  blinded  throughout  night. 

Each  one  kept  shroud,  nor  to  his  neighbor  gave 

Or  word,  or  look,  or  action  of  despair. 

Creiis  was  one ;  his  ponderous  iron  mace 

Lay  by  him,  and  a  shatterd  rib  of  rock 

Told  of  his  rage,  ere  he  thus  sank  and  pined. 

lapetus  another;  in  his  grasp, 

A  serpent's  plashy  neck  ;  its  barbed  tongue 

Squeez'd  from  the  gorge,  and  all  its  uncuiTd  length 

Dead  ;  and  because  the  creature  could  not  spit 

Its  poison  in  the  eyes  of  conquering  Jove. 

Next  Cottus  :  prone  he  lay,  chin  uppermost, 

As  though  in  pain  ;  for  still  upon  the  flint 

He  ground  severe  his  skull,  with  open  mouth 

And  eyes  at  horrid  working.     Nearest  him 

Asia,  born  of  most  enormous  Caf, 

Who  cost  her  mother  Tellus  keener  pangs, 

Though  feminine,  than  any  of  her  sons  : 

More  thought  than  woe  was  in  her  dusky  face, 

For  she  was  prophesying  of  her  glory ; 

And  in  her  wide  imagination  stood 

Palm-shaded  temples,  and  high  rival  fanes, 

By  Oxus  or  in  Ganges'  sacred  isles. 

Even  as  Hope  upon  her  anchor  leans, 

So  leant  she,  not  so  fair,  upon  a  tusk 

Shed  from  the  broadest  of  her  elephants. 

Above  her,  on  a  crag's  uneasy  shelve, 

Upon  his  elbow  rais'd,  all  prostrate  else, 

Shadow'd  Enceladus ;  once  tame  and  mild 


BOOK  ii.  HYPERION.  253 

As  grazing  ox  unworried  in  the  meads ; 

Now  tiger-passion'd,  lion-thoughted,  wroth, 

He  meditated,  plotted,  and  even  now 

Was  hurling  mountains  in  that  second  war, 

Not  long  delay'd,  that  scar'd  the  younger  Gods 

To  hide  themselves  in  forms  of  beast  and  bird. 

Nor  far  hence  Atlas  ;  and  beside  him  prone 

Phorcus,  the  sire  of  Gorgons.     Neighbor'd  close 

Oceanus,  and  Tethys,  in  whose  lap 

Sobb'd  Clymene  among  her  tangled  hair. 

In  midst  of  all  lay  Themis,  at  the  feet 

Of  Ops  the  queen  all  clouded  round  from  sight ; 

No  shape  distinguishable,  more  than  when 

Thick  night  confounds  the  pine-tops  with  the  clouds : 

And  many  else  whose  names  may  not  be  told. 

For  when  the  Muse's  wings  are  air-ward  spread, 

Who  shall  delay  her  flight?    And  she  must  chaunt 

Of  Saturn,  and  his  guide,  who  now  had  climb'd 

With  damp  and  slippery  footing  from  a  depth 

More  horrid  still.     Above  a  sombre  cliff 

Their  heads  appear'd,  and  up  their  stature  grew 

Till  on  the  level  height  their  steps  found  ease: 

Then  Thea  spread  abroad  her  trembling  arms 

Upon  the  precincts  of  this  nest  of  pain, 

And  sidelong  fix'd  her  eye  on  Saturn's  face : 

There  saw  she  direst  strife  ;  the  supreme  God 

At  war  with  all  the  frailty  of  grief, 

Of  rage,  of  fear,  anxiety,  revenge, 

Remorse,  spleen,  hope,  but  most  of  all  despair. 

Against  these  plagues  he  strove  in  vain ;  for  Fate 

Had  pour'd  a  mortal  oil  upon  his  head, 

A  disanointing  poison  :  so  that  Thea, 

Affrighted,  kept  her  still,  and  let  him  pass 

First  onwards  in,  among  the  fallen  tribe. 

As  with  us  mortal  men,  the  laden  heart 
Is  persecuted  more,  and  fever'd  more, 
When  it  is  nighing  to  the  mournful  house 
Where  other  hearts  are  sick  of  the  same  bruise ; 


254  HYPERION.  BOOK  n. 

So  Saturn,  as  he  walked  into  the  midst, 
Felt  faint,  and  would  have  sunk  among  the  rest, 
But  that  he  met  Enceladus's  eye, 
Whose  mightiness,  and  awe  of  him,  at  once 
Came  like  an  inspiration  ;  and  he  shouted, 
"  Titans,  behold  your  God!  "  at  which  some  groan'd  ; 
Some  started  on  their  feet ;  some  also  shouted  ; 
Some  wept,  some  wail'd,  all  bow'd  with  reverence ; 
And  Ops,  uplifting  her  black  folded  veil, 
Showed  her  pale  cheeks,  and  all  her  forehead  wan, 
Her  eye-brows  thin  and  jet,  and  hollow  eyes. 
There  is  a  roaring  in  the  bleak -grown  pines 
When  Winter  lifts  his  voice ;  there  is  a  noise 
Among  immortals  when  a  God  gives  sign, 
With  hushing  finger,  how  he  means  to  load 
His  tongue  with  the  full  weight  of  utterless  thought, 
With  thunder,  and  with  music,  and  with  pomp : 
Such  noise  is  like  the  roar  of  bleak-grown  pines ; 
Which,  when  it  ceases  in  this  mountain^  world, 
No  other  sound  succeeds ;  but  ceasing  here, 
Among  these  fallen,  Saturn's  voice  therefrom 
Grew  up  like  organ,  that  begins  anew 
Its  strain,  when  other  harmonies,  stopt  short, 
Leave  the  dinn'd  air  vibrating  silverly. 
Thus  grew  it  up  —  "  Not  in  my  own  sad  breast, 
'  Which  is  its  own  great  judge  and  searcher  out, 
'  Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus  : 
'  Not  in  the  legends  of  the  first  of  days, 
'  Studied  from  that  old  spirit-leaved  book 
'  Which  starry  Uranus  with  finger  bright 
'  Sav'd  from  the  shores  of  darkness,  when  the  waves 
'  Low-ebb'd  still  hid  it  up  in  shallow  gloom  ;  — 
'  And  the  which  book  ye  know  I  ever  kept 
'  For  my  firm-based  footstool :  —  Ah,  infirm! 
'  Not  there,  nor  in  sign,  symbol,  or  portent 
'  Of  element,  earth,  water,  air,  and  fire,  — 
;  At  war,  at  peace,  or  inter-quarreling 
'  One  against  one,  or  two,  or  three,  or  all 
'  Each  several  one  against  the  other  three, 


BOOK  n.  HYPERION.  255 

"  As  fire  with  air  loud  warring  when  rain-floods 

"  Drown  both,  and  press  them  both  against  earth's  face, 

"  Where,  finding  sulphur,  a  quadruple  wrath 

"  Unhinges  the  poor  world  ;  —  not  in  that  strife, 

"  Wherefrom  I  take  strange  lore,  and  read  it  deep, 

"  Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus : 

"  No,  no-where  can  unriddle,  though  I  search, 

"  And  pore  on  Nature's  universal  scroll 

"  Even  to  swooning,  why  ye,  Divinities, 

"  The  first-born  of  all  shap'd  and  palpable  Gods, 

"  Should  cower  beneath  what,  in  comparison, 

"  Is  untremendous  might.     Yet  ye  are  here, 

"  O'erwhelm'd,  and  spurn'd,  and  batter'd,  ye  are  here! 

"  O  Titans,  shall  I  say  '  Arise ! '  —  Ye  groan  : 

"  Shall  I  say  '  Crouch! '  —  Ye  groan.  What  can  I  then? 

"  O  Heaven  wide!     O  unseen  parent  dear! 

"  What  can  I  ?     Tell  me,  all  ye  brethren  Gods, 

"  How  we  can  war,  how  engine  our  great  wrath! 

"  O  speak  your  counsel  now,  for  Saturn's  ear 

"  Is  all  a-hunger'd.     Thou,  Oceanus, 

"  Ponderest  high  and  deep ;  and  in  thy  face 

"  I  see,  astonied,  that  severe  content 

"  Which  comes  of  thought  and  musing :  give  us  help ! '' 

So  ended  Saturn  ;  and  the  God  of  the  Sea, 
Sophist  and  sage,  from  no  Athenian  grove, 
But  cogitation  in  his  watery  shades, 
Arose,  with  locks  not  oozy,  and  began. 
In  murmurs,  which  his  first-endeavoring  tongue 
Caught  infant-like  from  the  far-foamed  sands. 
"O  ye,  whom  wrath  consumes!  who,  passion-stung, 
"  Writhe  at  defeat,  and  nurse  your  agonies ! 
"  Shut  up  your  senses,  stifle  up  your  ears, 
"  My  voice  is  not  a  bellows  unto  ire. 
"  Yet  listen,  ye  who  will,  whilst  I  bring  proof 
"  How  ye,  perforce,  must  be  content  to  stoop : 
"  And  in  the  proof  much  comfort  will  I  give, 
"  If  ye  will  take  that  comfort  in  its  truth. 
"  We  fall  by  course  of  Nature's  law,  not  force 


256  HYPERION.  BOOK  ii. 

"  Of  thunder,  or  of  Jove.     Great  Saturn,  thou 
"  Hast  sifted  well  the  atom-universe  ; 
"  But  for  this  reason,  that  thou  art  the  King, 
"  And  only  blind  from  sheer  supremacy, 
"  One  avenue  was  shaded  from  thine  eyes, 
"Through  which  I  wandered  to  eternal  truth. 
"  And  first,  as  thou  wast  not  the  first  of  powers, 
"  So  art  thou  not  the  last ;  it  cannot  be  : 
"  Thou  art  not  the  beginning  nor  the  end. 
••  From  chaos  and  parental  darkness  came 
•'  Light,  the  first  fruits  of  that  intestine  broil, 
••  That  sullen  ferment,  which  for  wondrous  ends 
••  Was  ripening  in  itself.     The  ripe  hour  came, 
"  And  with  it  light,  and  light,  engendering 

•  Upon  its  own  producer,  forthwith  touch'd 

•  The  whole  enormous  matter  into  life. 
'  Upon  that  very  hour,  our  parentage, 

•  The  Heavens  and  the  Earth,  were  manifest : 

•  Then  thou  first-born,  and  we  the  giant-race, 

'  Found  ourselves  ruling  new  and  beauteous  realms. 
i  Now  comes  the  pain  of  truth,  to  whom  'tis  pain  ; 
'  O  folly!  for  to  bear  all  naked  truths, 
••  And  to  envisage  circumstance,  all  calm, 
••  That  is  the  top  of  sovereignty.     Mark  well ! 
"  As  Heaven  and  Earth  are  fairer,  fairer  far 
"  Than  Chaos  and  blank  Darkness,  though  once  chiefs ; 
•'  And  as  we  show  beyond  that  Heaven  and  Earth 
"In  form  and  shape  compact  and  beautiful, 
•'In  will,  in  action  free,  companionship, 
"  And  thousand  other  signs  of  purer  life  ; 
"  So  on  our  heels  a  fresh  perfection  treads, 
"  A  power  more  strong  in  beauty,  born  of  us 

•  And  fated  to  excel  us,  as  we  pass 

'  In  glory  that  old  Darkness  :  nor  are  we 
'  Thereby  more  conquerd,  than  by  us  the  rule 
'  Of  shapeless  Chaos.     Say,  doth  the  dull  soil 
'  Quarrel  with  the  proud  forests  it  hath  fed, 
'  And  feedeth  still,  more  comely  than  itself? 
4  Can  it  deny  the  chiefdom  of  green  groves  ? 


BOOK  ii.  HYPERION.  257 

"  Or  shall  the  tree  be  envious  of  the  dove 
"  Because  it  cooeth,  and  hath  snowy  wings 
"  To  wander  wherewithal  and  find  its  joys? 
"  We  are  such  forest-trees,  and  our  fair  boughs 
"  Have  bred  forth,  not  pale  solitary  doves, 
•'  But  eagles  golden-feather'd,  who  do  tower 
"  Above  us  in  their  beauty,  and  must  reign 
"In  right  thereof;  for  'tis  the  eternal  law 
"  That  first  in  beauty  should  be  first  in  might : 
"  Yea,  by  that  law,  another  race  may  drive 
"  Our  conquerors  to  mourn  as  we  do  now. 
-  Have  ye  beheld  the  young  God  of  the  Seas, 
'  My  dispossessor?     Have  ye  seen  his  face? 
'  Have  ye  beheld  his  chariot,  foam'd  along 
'  By  noble  winged  creatures  he  hath  made? 
'  I  saw  him  on  the  calmed  waters  scud, 
k  With  such  a  glow  of  beauty  in  his  eyes, 
'  That  it  enforced  me  to  bid  sad  farewell 
'  To  all  my  empire  :  farewell  sad  I  took, 
'  And  hither  came,  to  see  how  dolorous  fate 
'  Had  wrought  upon  ye  ;  and  how  I  might  best 
'  Give  consolation  in  this  woe  extreme. 
"  Receive  the  truth,  and  let  it  be  your  balm." 

Whether  through  poz'd  conviction,  or  disdain, 
They  guarded  silence,  when  Oceanus 
Left  murmuring,  what  deepest  thought  can  tell  ? 
But  so  it  was,  none  answerd  for  a  space, 
Save  one  whom  none  regarded,  Clymene ; 
And  yet  she  answerd  not,  only  complain'd, 
With  hectic  lips,  and  eyes  up-looking  mild, 
Thus  wording  timidly  among  the  fierce : 
"  O  Father,  I  am  here  the  simplest  voice, 
"  And  all  my  knowledge  is  that  joy  is  gone, 
"  And  this  thing  woe  crept  in  among  our  hearts, 
"  There  to  remain  for  ever,  as  I  fear : 
"  I  would  not  bode  of  evil,  if  I  thought 
"  So  weak  a  creature  could  turn  off  the  help 
"  Which  by  just  right  should  come  of  mighty  Gods ; 


258  HYPERION.  BOOK  ii. 

"  Yet  let  me  tell  my  sorrow,  let  me  tell 

"  Of  what  I  heard,  and  how  it  made  me  weep, 

"  And  know  that  we  had  parted  from  all  hope. 

"  I  stood  upon  a  shore,  a  pleasant  shore, 

"  Where  a  sweet  clime  was  breathed  from  a  land 

"  Of  fragrance,  quietness,  and  trees,  and  flowers. 

"  Full  of  calm  joy  it  was,  as  I  of  grief; 

"  Too  full  of  joy  and  soft  delicious  warmth  ; 

u  So  that  I  felt  a  movement  in  my  heart 

''  To  chide,  and  to  reproach  that  solitude 

*'  With  songs  of  misery,  music  of  our  woes  ; 

"  And  sat  me  down,  and  took  a  mouthed  shell 

"And  murmur'd  into  it,  and  made  melody  — 

"  O  melody  no  more!  for  while  I  sang, 

"  And  with  poor  skill  let  pass  into  the  breeze 

"  The  dull  shell's  echo,  from  a  bowery  strand 

"  Just  opposite,  an  island  of  the  sea, 

"  There  came  enchantment  with  the  shifting  wind, 

"  That  did  both  drown  and  keep  alive  my  ears. 

"  I  threw  my  shell  away  upon  the  sand, 

"  And  a  wave  fill'd  it,  as  my  sense  was  filPd 

"  With  that  new  blissful  golden  melody. 

"  A  living  death  was  in  each  gush  of  sounds, 

"  Each  family  of  rapturous  hurried  notes, 

"  That  fell,  one  after  one,  yet  all  at  once, 

"  Like  pearl  beads  dropping  sudden  from  their  string : 

"  And  then  another,  then  another  strain, 

"  Each  like  a  dove  leaving  its  olive  perch, 

"  With  music  wing'd  instead  of  silent  plumes, 

"  To  hover  round  my  head,  and  make  me  sick 

"  Of  joy  and  grief  at  once.     Grief  overcame, 

"  And  I  was  stopping  up  my  frantic  ears, 

"  When,  past  all  hindrance  of  my  trembling  hands, 

"  A  voice  came  sweeter,  sweeter  than  all  tune, 

"  And  still  it  cried,  '  Apollo!  young  Apollo! 

"  '  The  morning-bright  Apollo!  young  Apollo! ' 

"  I  fled,  it  follow'd  me,  and  cried  'Apollo! ' 

"  O  Father,  and  O  Brethren,  had  ye  felt- 

"  Those  pains  of  mine  ;  O  Saturn,  hadst  thou  felt, 


BOOK  II.  HYPERION.  259 

"  Ye  would  not  call  this  too  indulged  tongue 
"  Presumptuous,  in  thus  venturing  to  be  heard." 

So  far  her  voice  flow'd  on,  like  timorous  brook 
That,  lingering  along  a  pebbled  coast, 
Doth  fear  to  meet  the  sea :  but  sea  it  met, 
And  shudder'd ;  for  the  overwhelming  voice 
Of  huge  Enceladus  swallow'd  it  in  wrath  : 
The  ponderous  syllables,  like  sullen  waves 
In  the  half-glutted  hollows  of  reef-rocks, 
Came  booming  thus,  while  still  upon  his  arm 
He  lean'd ;  not  rising,  from  supreme  contempt. 
"  Or  shall  we  listen  to  the  over-wise, 
"  Or  to  the  over-foolish  giant,  Gods  ? 
"  Not  thunderbolt  on  thunderbolt,  till  all 
1  That  rebel  Jove's  whole  armory  were  spent, 
'  Not  world  on  world  upon  these  shoulders  piled, 
'  Could  agonize  me  more  than  baby-words 
'  In  midst  of  this  dethronement  horrible. 
'Speak!  roar!  shout!  yell!  ye  sleepy  Titans  all. 
1  Do  ye  forget  the  blows,  the  buffets  vile? 
"  Are  ye  not  smitten  by  a  youngling  arm  ? 
"  Dost  thou  forget,  sham  Monarch  of  the  Waves, 
"  Thy  scalding  in  the  seas  ?    What,  have  I  rous'd 
"  Your  spleens  with  so  few  simple  words  as  these  ? 
"  O  joy!  for  now  I  see  ye  are  not  lost : 
"  O  joy!  for  now  I  see  a  thousand  eyes 
"Wide  glaring  for  revenge!  "  —  As  this  he  said, 
He  lifted  up  his  stature  vast,  and  stood, 
Still  without  intermission  speaking  thus  : 
"  Now  ye  are  flames,  I'll  tell  you  how  to  burn, 
"  And  purge  the  ether  of  our  enemies ; 
"  How  to  feed  fierce  the  crooked  stings  of  fire, 
"  And  singe  away  the  swollen  clouds  of  Jove, 
"  Stifling  that  puny  essence  in  its  tent. 
"  O  let  him  feel  the  evil  he  hath  done ; 
"  For  though  I  scorn  Oceanus's  lore, 
"  Much  pain  have  I  for  more  than  loss  of  realms 
"  The  days  of  peace  and  slumberous  calm  are  fled ; 


260  HYPERION.  BOOK  ii. 

••  Those  days,  all  innocent  of  scathing  war, 

••  When  all  the  fair  Existences  of  heaven 

••  Came  open-eyed  to  guess  what  we  would  speak :  — 

"  That  was  before  our  brows  were  taught  to  frown, 

"  Before  our  lips  knew  else  but  solemn  sounds ; 

"  That  was  before  we  knew  the  winged  thing, 

"  Victory,  might  be  lost,  or  might  be  won. 

"  And  be  ye  mindful  that  Hyperion, 

•'  Our  brightest  brother,  still  is  undisgraced  — 

"  Hyperion,  lo!  his  radiance  is  here!  " 

All  eyes  were  on  Enceladus's  face, 
And  they  beheld,  while  still  Hyperion's  name 
Flew  from  his  lips  up  to  the  vaulted  rocks, 
A  pallid  gleam  across  his  features  stern  : 
Not  savage,  for  he  saw  full  many  a  God 
Wroth  as  himself.     He  look'd  upon  them  all, 
And  in  each  face  he  saw  a  gleam  of  light, 
But  splendider  in  Saturn's,  whose  hoar  locks 
Shone  like  the  bubbling  foam  about  a  keel 
When  the  prow  sweeps  into  a  midnight  cove. 
In  pale  and  silver  silence  they  remain'd, 
Till  suddenly  a  splendor,  like  the  morn, 
Pervaded  all  the  beetling  gloomy  steeps, 
All  the  sad  spaces  of  oblivion, 
And  every  gulf,  and  every  chasm  old, 
And  every  height,  and  every  sullen  depth, 
Voiceless,  or  hoarse  with  loud  tormented  streams : 
And  all  the  everlasting  cataracts, 
And  all  the  headlong  torrents  far  and  near, 
Mantled  before  in  darkness  and  huge  shade, 
Now  saw  the  light  and  made  it  terrible. 
It  was  Hyperion  :  —  a  granite  peak 
His  bright  feet  touch'd,  and  there  he  stay'd  to  view 
The  misery  his  brilliance  had  betray'd 
To  the  most  hateful  seeing  of  itself. 
Golden  his  hair  of  short  Numidian  curl, 
Regal  his  shape  majestic,  a  vast  shade 
In  midst  of  his  own  brightness,  like  the  bulk 


BOOK  ii.  HYPERION.  261 

Of  Memnon's  image  at  the  set  of  sun 

To  one  who  travels  -from  the  dusking  East : 

Sighs,  too,  as  mournful  as  that  Memnon's  harp 

He  utter'd,  while  his  hands  contemplative 

He  press'd  together,  and  in  silence  stood. 

Despondence  seiz'd  again  the  fallen  Gods 

At  sight  of  the  dejected  King  of  Day, 

And  many  hid  their  faces  from  the  light : 

But  fierce  Enceladus  sent  forth  his  eyes 

Among  the  brotherhood  ;  and,  at  their  glare, 

Uprose  lapetus,  and  Creiis  too, 

And  Phorcus,  sea-born,  and  together  strode 

To  where  he  towered  on  his  eminence 

There  those  four  shouted  forth  old  Saturn's  name ; 

Hyperion  from  the  peak  loud  answered,  "  Saturn!" 

Saturn  sat  near  the  Mother  of  the  Gods, 

In  whose  face  was  no  joy,  though  all  the  Gods 

Gave  from  their  hollow  throats  the  name  of  '•  Saturn ! " 


HYPERION. 


BOOK   III. 

THUS  in  alternate  uproar  and  sad  peace, 
Amazed  were  those  Titans  utterly. 
O  leave  them,  Muse !  O  leave  them  to  their  woes ; 
For  thou  art  weak  to  sing  such  tumults  dire  : 
A  solitary  sorrow  best  befits 
Thy  lips,  and  antheming  a  lonely  grief. 
Leave  them,  O  Muse !  for  thou  anon  wilt  find 
Many  a  fallen  old  Divinity 
Wandering  in  vain  about  bewildered  shores. 
Meantime  touch  piously  the  Delphic  harp, 
And  not  a  wind  of  heaven  but  will  breathe 
In  aid  soft  warble  from  the  Dorian  flute ; 
For  lo!  His  for  the  Father  of  all  verse. 
Flush  every  thing  that  hath  a  vermeil  hue, 
Let  the  rose  glow  intense  and  warm  the  air, 
And  let  the  clouds  of  even  and  of  morn 
Float  in  voluptuous  fleeces  o'er  the  hills  ; 
Let  the  red  wine  within  the  goblet  boil. 
Cold  as  a  bubbling  well ;  let  faint-lipp'd  shells, 
On  sands,  or  in  great  deeps,  vermilion  turn 
Through  all  their  labyrinths  ;  and  let  the  maid 
Blush  keenly,  as  with  some  warm  kiss  surprised. 
Chief  isle  of  the  embowered  Cyclades, 
Rejoice,  O  Delos,  with  thine  olives  green, 
And  poplars,  and  lawn-shading  palms,  and  beech, 
In  which  the  Zephyr  breathes  the  loudest  song, 
And  hazels  tnick,  dark-stemm'd  beneath  the  shade : 
262 


BOOK  in.  HYPERION.  263 

Apollo  is  once  more  the  golden  theme ! 

Where  was  he,  when  the  Giant  of  the  Sun 

Stood  bright,  amid  the  sorrow  of  his  peers? 

Together  had  he  left  his  mother  fair 

And  his  twin-sister  sleeping  in  their  bower, 

And  in  the  morning  twilight  wandered  forth 

Beside  the  osiers  of  a  rivulet, 

Full  ankle-deep  in  lilies  of  the  vale. 

The  nightingale  had  ceas'd,  and  a  few  stars 

Were  lingering  in  the  heavens,  while  the  thrush 

Began  calm-throated.     Throughout  all  the  isle 

There  was  no  covert,  no  retired  cave 

Unhaunted  by  the  murmurous  noise  of  waves, 

Though  scarcely  heard  in  many  a  green  recess. 

He  listen'd,  and  he  wept,  and  his  bright  tears 

Went  trickling  down  the  golden  bow  he  held 

Thus  with  half-shut  suffused  eyes  he  stood, 

While  from  beneath  some  cumbrous  boughs  hard  by 

With  solemn  step  an  awful  Goddess  came, 

And  there  was  purport  in  her  looks  for  him, 

Which  he  with  eager  guess  began  to  read 

Perplex'd,  the  while  melodiously  he  said : 

"  How  cam'st  thou  over  the  unfooted  sea? 

"  Or  hath  that  antique  mien  and  r.obed  form 

"  Mov'd  in  these  vales  invisible  till  now  ? 

"  Sure  I  have  heard  those  vestments  sweeping  o'er 

"  The  fallen  leaves,  when  I  have  sat  alone 

"  In  cool  mid-forest.     Surely  I  have  traced 

"  The  rustle  of  those  ample  skirts  about 

"  These  grassy  solitudes,  and  seen  the  flowers 

"  Lift  up  their  heads,  as  still  the  whisper  pass'd. 

"  Goddess!  I  have  beheld  those  eyes  before, 

"  And  their  eternal  calm,  and  all  that  face, 

"Or  I   have   dreanVd."  — "  Yes,"  said  the  supreme 

shape, 

"  Thou  hast  dream'd  of  me  ;  and  awaking  up 
"  Didst  find  a  lyre  all  golden  by  thy  side, 
"  Whose  strings  touch'd  by  thy  fingers,  all  the  vast 
"  Unwearied  ear  of  the  whole  universe 


264  HYPERION.  BOOK  in. 

"  Listened  in  pain  and  pleasure  at  the  birth 
"  Of  such  new  tuneful  wonder.     Is't  not  strange 
"  That  thou  shouldst  weep,  so  gifted  ?    Tell  me,  youth, 
"  What  sorrow  thou  canst  feel ;  for  I  am  sad 
"  When  thou  dost  shed  a  tear :  explain  thy  griefs 
"  To  one  who  in  this  lonely  isle  hath  been 
1  The  watcher  of  thy  sleep  and  hours  of  life, 
'  From  the  young  day  when  first  thy  infant  hand 
'  Pluck'd  witless  the  weak  flowers,  till  thine  arm 
'  Could  bend  that  bow  heroic  to  all  times. 
'  Show  thy  heart's  secret  to  an  ancient  Power 
"  Who  hath  forsaken  old  and  sacred  thrones 
"  For  prophecies  of  thee,  and  for  the  sake 
"  Of  loveliness  new  born."  —  Apollo  then, 
With  sudden  scrutiny  and  gloomless  eyes, 
Thus  answer'd,  while  his  white  melodious  throat 
Throbb'd  with  the  syllables.  —  " Mnemosyne! 
"  Thy  name  is  on  my  tongue,  I  know  not  how ; 
"  Why  should  I  tell  thee  what  thou  so  well  seest  ? 
"  Why  should  I  strive  to  show  what  from  thy  lips 
"  Would  come  no  mystery  ?     For  me,  dark,  dark, 
"  And  painful  vile  oblivion  seals  my  eyes  : 
"  I  strive  to  search  wherefore  I  am  so  sad, 
'  Until  a  melancholy  numbs  my  limbs ; 
'  And  then  upon  the  grass  I  sit,  and  moan, 
'  Like  one  who  once  had  wings.  —  O  why  should  I 
'  Feel  curs'd  and  thwarted,  when  the  liegeless  air 
'  Yields  to  my  step  aspirant  ?   why  should  I 
'  Spurn  the  green  turf  as  hateful  to  my  feet  ? 
"  Goddess  benign,  point  forth  some  unknown  thing : 
"  Are  there  not  other  regions  than  this  isle  ? 
"What  are  the  stars?     There  is  the  sun,  the  sun! 
"And  the  most  patient  brilliance  of  the  moon! 
"  And  stars  by  thousands !     Point  me  out  the  way 
"  To  any  one  particular  beauteous  star, 
"  And  I  will  flit  into  it  with  my  lyre, 
"And  make  its  silvery  splendor  pant  with  bliss. 
"I  have  heard  the  cloudy  thunder:   Where  is  power? 
"  Whose  hand,  whose  essence,  what  divinity 


BOOK  in.  HYPERION.  265 

"  Makes  this  alarum  in  the  elements, 
"  While  I  here  idle  listen  on  the  shores 
'  In  fearless  yet  in  aching  ignorance? 
'  O  tell  me,  lonely  Goddess,  by  thy  harp, 
'  That  waileth  every  morn  and  eventide, 
'Tell  me  why  thus  I  rave,  about  these  groves! 
'Mute  thou  remainest  —  Mute!  yet  I  can  read 
'  A  wondrous  lesson  in  thy  silent  face : 
'  Knowledge  enormous  makes  a  God  of  me. 
'  Names,  deeds,  gray  legends,  dire  events,  rebellions, 
'  Majesties,  sovran  voices,  agonies, 
'  Creations  and  destroyings,  all  at  once 
'  Pour  into  the  wide  hollows  of  my  brain, 
'  And  deify  me,  as  if  some  blithe  wine 
'  Or  bright  elixir  peerless  I  had  drunk, 
'And  so  become  immortal."  —  Thus  the  God, 
While  his  enkindled  eyes,  with  level  glance 
Beneath  his  white  soft  temples,  stedtast  kept 
Trembling  with  light  upon  Mnemosyne. 
Soon  wild  commotions  shook  him,  and  made  flush 
All  the  immortal  fairness  of  his  limbs  ; 
Most  like  the  struggle  at  the  gate  of  death  ; 
Or  liker  still  to  one  who  should  take  leave 
Of  pale  immortal  death,  and  with  a  pang 
As  hot  as  death's  is  chill,  with  fierce  convulse 
Die  into  life  :  so  young  Apollo  anguish'd ; 
His  very  hair,  his  golden  tresses  famed 
Kept  undulation  round  his  eager  neck. 
During  the  pain  Mnemosyne  upheld 
Her  arms  as  one  who  prophesied.  —  At  length 
Apollo  shriek'd  ;  —  and  lo!  from  all  his  limbs 
Celestial     *        ~        *  *        *        * 


THE  END. 


POSTHUMA. 


i. 

WHEN  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 

Before  my  pen  has  glean'd  my  teeming  brain, 
Before  high  piled  books,  in  charact'ry, 

Hold  like  rich  garners  the  full-ripen'd  grain ; 
When  I  behold,  upon  the  nighfs  starr'd  face, 

Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance, 
And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 

Their  shadows,  with  the  magic  hand  of  chance ; 
And  when  I  feel,  fair  creature  of  an  hour! 

That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee  more, 
Never  have  relish  in  the  faery  power 

Of  unreflecting  love!  — then  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and  think 
Till  Love  and  Fame  to  nothingness  do  sink. 


II. 

IN  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  tree, 

Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green  felicity : 

The  north  cannot  undo  them, 

With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them ; 

Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 

From  budding  at  the  prime. 

367 


268  POSTHUMA. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  brook. 
Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 
Apollo's  summer  look ; 
But  with  a  sweet  forgetting, 
They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 
Never,  never  petting 
About  the  frozen  time. 

Ah!  would  'twere  so  with  many 
A  gentle  girl  and  boy! 
But  were  there  ever  any 
Writhed  not  at  passed  joy? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it, 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it, 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it, 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 


III. 

ASLEEP  !  O  sleep  a  little  while,  white  pearl ! 

And  let  me  kneel,  and  let  me  pray  to  thee, 

And  let  me  call  Heaven's  blessing  on  thine  eyes, 

And  let  me  breathe  into  the  happy  air, 

That  doth  enfold  and  touch  thee  all  about, 

Vows  of  my  slavery,  my  giving  up, 

My  sudden  adoration,  my  great  love! 


IV. 
LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS   MERCI. 

BALLAD. 
I. 

O  WHAT  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering? 
The  sedge  has  wither'd  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 


POSTHUMA.  269 


H. 


O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms! 

So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone? 
The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 

And  the  harvest's  done. 


m. 


I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew, 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too. 


IV. 


I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 

Full  beautiful  —  a  faery's  child, 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 


I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone ; 

She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 

VI. 

I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long, 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 

VII. 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew, 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said  — 
"  I  love  thee  true." 


270  POSTHUMA. 


VIII. 


She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sigh'd  full  sore, 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four. 


IX. 

And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 

And  there  I  dream'd  —  Ah !  woe  betide ! 
The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd 

On  the  cold  hill's  side. 


x. 

I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all ; 

They  cried  —  "  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall!" 


XI. 

I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam, 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 

And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here, 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 


XII. 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  witherd  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 


POSTHUMA.  271 

V. 
THE   HUMAN   SEASONS. 

FOUR  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year ; 

There  are  four  seasons  in  the  mind  of  man : 
He  has  his  lusty  Spring,  when  fancy  clear 

Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span : 
He  has  his  Summer,  when  luxuriously 

Spring's  honey'd  cud  of  youthful  thought  he  loves 
To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  high 

Is  nearest  unto  heaven  :   quiet  coves 
His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his  wings 

He  furleth  close  ;  contented  so  to  look 
On  mists  in  idleness  —  to  let  fair  things 

Pass  by  unheeded  as  a  threshold  brook. 
He  has  his  Winter  too  of  pale  misfeature, 
Or  else  he  would  forego  his  mortal  nature. 


VI. 

ON  FAME, 
i. 

FAME,  like  a  wayward  girl,  will  still  be  coy 

To  those  who  woo  her  with  too  slavish  knees, 
But  makes  surrender  to  some  thoughtless  boy, 

And  dotes  the  more  upon  a  heart  at  ease ; 
She  is  a  Gipsey,  —  will  not  speak  to  those 

Who  have  not  learnt  to  be  content  without  her ; 
A  Jilt,  whose  ear  was  never  whisper'd  close, 

Who  thinks  they  scandal  her  who  talk  about  her ; 
A  very  Gipsey  is  she,  Nilus-born, 

Sister-in-law  to  jealous  Potiphar ; 
Ye  love-sick  Bards!  repay  her  scorn  for  scorn; 

Ye  Artists  lovelorn!  madmen  that  ye  are! 
Make  your  best  bow  to  her  and  bid  adieu, 
Then,  if  she  likes  it,  she  will  follow  you. 


272  POSTHUMA. 

VII. 

ON   FAME, 
n. 

"  You  cannot  eat  your  cake  and  have  it  too."  —  Proverb, 

How  fever'd  is  the  man,  who  cannot  look 

Upon  his  mortal  days  with  temperate  blood, 
Who  vexes  all  the  leaves  of  his  life's  book, 

And  robs  his  fair  name  of  its  maidenhood ; 
It  is  as  if  the  rose  should  pluck  herself, 

Or  the  ripe  plum  finger  its  misty  bloom, 
As  if  a  Naiad,  like  a  meddling  elf, 

Should  darken  her  pure  grot  with  muddy  gloom  : 
But  the  rose  leaves  herself  upon  the  briar, 

For  winds  to  kiss  and  grateful  bees  to  feed, 
And  the  ripe  plum  still  wears  its  dim  attire, 

The  undisturbed  lake  has  crystal  space ; 

Why  then  should  man,  teasing  the  world  for  grace, 

Spoil  his  salvation  for  a  fierce  miscreed? 

VIII. 

6R1GHT  star!  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art  — 

Not  in  lone  splendor  hung  aloft  the  night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 

Like  Nature's  patient  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors  — 
No  —  yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable, 

Pillow'd  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 
To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 

Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest, 
Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 
And  so  live  ever  —  or  else  swoon  to  death. 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 


addition  to  the  foregoing  and  to  the  reprint  on  p.  xi)  bears  the  woodcut 
of  a  laurelled  head  in  profile,  which  may  be  meant  for  Spenser.  The 
text,  preceded  by  three  leaves,  covers  121  pages  in  small  octavo 
size. 

II  Endymion  bears  on  the  title  (in  addition  to  the  reprint  on  p.  55) 
"  By  John  Keats.     London:    Printed  for   Taylor  and   Hessey,  93, 
Fleet  Street.     1818."     Five  leaves,  in  the  example  before  me,  precede 
the  text,  which  (including  titles  before  each  book),  extends  to  207 
pages.      "  Handsomely   printed   in  [a  largish-sized]    8vo.   price  95. 
boards,"  says  the  Advertisement  appended  to  the  next  volume. 

III  Lamia  etc.,  in  addition  to  the  reprint  on  p.  169,  bears  "  By 
John  Keats,  author  of  Endymion.     London:  Printed  for  Taylor  and 
Hessey,    Fleet-Street,   1820."     Four   leaves  precede  the  text,  which 
(including  separate  titles  for  Lamia,  Isabella,  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes, 
and  Poems) ,  covers  199  pages  in  an  octavo  size  between  that  of  the 
two  former  volumes. 

Lastly,  I  was  printed  by  C.  Richards,  18,  Warwick  Street,  Golden 
Square,  London;  II  by  T.  Miller,  Noble  Street,  Cheapside;  III  by 
Thomas  Davison,  Whitefriars. 

PACK 

xiii  Glory  and  loveliness:  This  Dedicatory  Sonnet  was  written  in. 
1817,  whilst  the  volume  was  in  course  of  printing.  The  acquaint- 
ance of  Keats  with  Leigh  Hunt,  ten  or  eleven  years  his  senior, 
had  begun  by  1816.  It  is  doubtful  whether  the  Poet  gained  on 
the  whole  by  the  familiarity  —  (for,  on  his  side,  it  does  not  seem  to 
me  to  have  risen  to  real  friendship)  —  which  followed.  Hunt  was 
at  the  least  satisfactory  stage  of  his  long  life,  a  State  prosecution 
for  a  violently  personal  attack  on  the  Prince  Regent  having  just 
converted  him,  in  his  own  eyes  and  those  of  his  friends,  into  a 
political  martyr,  as  the  harsh  criticism  of  the  day  had  raised  him 
into  the  literary  idol  of  a  coterie.  The  "  self-delusion  "  he  enter- 

275 


276 


NOTES. 


PAGE 

xiii  tained  that  he  was  a  great  poet,  struck  Keats,  —  a  man  of  much 
stronger  nature,  and  wholly  free  from  such  weakness,  —  as  "  lam- 
entable," so  early  as  May,  1817.  In  December,  1818,  writing 
to  his  brother  George,  he  describes  Hunt  as  "  a  pleasant  enough 
fellow  in  the  main,  when  you  are  with  him;  but  in  reality  he 
is  vain,  egotistic.  .  .  .  Hunt  does  one  harm  by  making  fine 
things  pretty,  and  beautiful  things  hateful;  through  him  I  am 
indifferent  to  Mozart,  .  .  .  and  many  a  glorious  thing  when  asso- 
ciated with  him  becomes  nothing."  Some  of  the  gloom  of  his 
jast  years  had  fallen  on  Keats  when  he  wrote  thus;  yet  the  picture 
is  confirmed  in  too  many  ways  to  be  essentially  doubtful.  On 
the  other  hand,  Hunt's  affection  for  Keats  was  real;  he  had  genu- 
ine tenderness  of  nature,  and  strong,  though  narrow,  literary 
enthusiasm.  Had  his  younger  friend  lived,  he  would  doubtless 
have  done  justice  to  those  fine  qualities  in  Hunt  which,  as  his 
West  Indian  blood  calmed  down,  freed  themselves,  more  or  less, 
from  their  youthful  alloy  of  vanity  and  intemperateness,  during 
the  latter  half  of  his  life. 

Despite  the  clear  insight  into  those  faults  of  taste  in  Hunt 
which  the  preceding  extract  shows,  the  style  of  Keats,  in  his 
earlier  work  especially,  was  in  some  degree  influenced  by  the 
elder  poet.  He  seems  to  owe  to  him  a  rather  frequent  and  un- 
pleasing  mannerism  in  the  use  of  the  word  luxury:  and  the 
Rimini  and  Hero  and  Leander  exhibit  sudden  lapses  into  pro- 
saicism,  words  used  with  an  abrupt  or  even  coarse  directness, 
strange  momentary  failures  in  good  taste,  from  which  Keats,  also, 
is  not  always  free.  Beyond  this,  there  is  little  in  common  be- 
tween the  two  writers:  the  similarity,  in  case  of  the  poems  just 
named,  is  only  a  superficial  likeness  of  manner.  Where  Keats  is 
penetrative,  Hunt  is  decorative:  his  work  is  formed  on  Dryden, 
but  Dryden  ornamentalized  and  without  his  vigor.  It  was  to 
very  different  results  that  Keats  studied  the  great  Fabulist  for 
Lamia. 

In  regard  to  the  volume  of  1817,  it  may  be  noted  here,  in  Lord 
Houghton's  words,  that  "  this  little  book,  the  beloved  first-born 
of  so  great  a  genius,  scarcely  touched  the  public  attention." 

i  This  nameless  Poem,  to  judge  by  its  style  and  matter,  may  be 
safely  placed  amongst  the  latest-written  pieces  in  the  volume  of 
1817,  and  was,  doubtless,  chosen  by  Keats  as  a  kind  of"  Induc- 
tion," (to  use  the  fine  Elizabethan  word  with  which  he  entitled 
the  piece  next  following) ,  to  his  little  venture.  But  we  may  take 
it  also  a^  a  fit  preface  to  the  work  which  his  short  life  enabled 
him  to  give  us:  —  presenting,  as  it  does,  two  of  the  leading  colors 
or  motives  that  appear  throughout  his  poetry,  —  the  passion  for 
pure  nature-painting,  and  the  love  for  Hellenic  myths,  treated, 
not  as  the  Greeks  themselves  treated  them,  but  with  a  lavish 
descriptiveness  which  belongs  to  the  English  Renaissance  move- 
ment, as  represented  in  the  Faerie  Queene,  and  with  a  strong 
tinge  of  the  still  more  modern  movement,  which  is  intelligibly 
summed  up  under  the  name  Romantic.  Upon  both  of  these 
dominant  features  in  Keats  I  propose  to  add  a  few  words  later  on. 
Meanwhile,  we  may  remark  that  already  the  tale  of  Endymion 


NOTES.  277 

PAGE 

i  had  seized  on  the  Poet's  imagination,  and  that  his  later  treatment 
of  it  is  shadowed  forth,  in  essentials,  in  the  six  final  paragraphs  o) 
this  lovely  poem. 

Two  other  notable  characteristics  of  Keats  should  be  also  ob- 
served: his  chivalrous  devotion  to  Woman,  which  is  in  close 
analogy  with  the  tone  of  Milton  in  the  Camus  and  the  Paradise, 
and  his  singular  gift  in  closeness  and  accuracy  of  descriptive 
characterization.  Here  he  far  surpasses  Spenser,  whose  land- 
scape, like  that  of  the  painters  of  his  age,  is  seen  always  through 
a  generalizing  medium  of  literature  and  of  human  interest,  and 
wants,  as  a  rule,  those  touches,  so  frequent  in  Keats  that  it  would 
be  idle  to  quote  them,  which  testify  to  immediate  contact  with  and 
inspiration  from  Nature.  If,  however,  the  young  Poet  has  here 
a  point  of  superiority  (due,  in  part,  to  the  influence  of  his  age) , 
his  landscape  falls  short  of  the  landscape  of  Shelley  in  its  com- 
parative absence  of  the  larger  features  of  sky  and  earth:  it  is 
foreground  work  in  which  he  excels;  whilst  again,  in  compari- 
son with  Wordsworth,  Keats  rests  satisfied  with  exquisitely  true 
delineation,  and  has  little  thought  (thus  far)  of  allying  Nature 
with  human  sympathy;  still  less,  of  penetrating  and  rendering  her 
deeper  eternal  significance. 

5  1.  23  What  first  inspired:  It  was  fortunate  for  Keats  and  for 
us  that,  when  devising  the  pretty  fancy  which  he  here  gives  as 
the  possible  origin  of  the  Narcissus  legend,  he  was  not  hampered 
by  the  often  trivial  and  prosaic  elements,  etymological  or  ethno- 
logical, with  which  the  (thus  far,  at  least)  inchoate  and  hypo- 
thetical Science  of  Comparative  Mythology  has  of  late  years  dulled 
the  beautiful  legends  of  Hellas. 

7  If  the  attraction  of  the  Grecian  world  to  Keats  is  represented 
in  the  preceding  poem,  this  Induction  and  Calidore  represent 
the  influence  of  his  first  love  in  poetry,  —  Spenser ;  nor,  amongst 
the  many  pieces  in  Spenser's  style  which  the  magic  of  that  great 
Master  has  called  forth  in  our  literature,  are  there  any  more  com- 
pletely imbued  with  the  picturesque  side  of  his  genius. 

9!.  18  thy  lovd  Libertas  :  a  name  under  which  Keats,  in  this 
first  volume,  euphemistically  signifies  Leigh  Hunt.  There  is, 
however,  no  nearer  affinity  between  Hunt  and  Spenser  in  regard 
to  their  respective  gifts  in  poetry,  than  between  Spenser's  severe 
Elizabethan  politics,  pushing  justice  itself  into  injustice,  and  the 
other's  vague  emotional  creed :  —  between  the  almost  ascetic  lofti- 
ness of  manhood  which  underlies  the  Faerie  Queene,  and  the 
slipshod  morality  of  Rimini  and  Hero. 

q  Calidore  may  be  a  rather  earlier  piece  than  the  two  which 
precede  it;  —the  use  of  elegantly,  of  soft  luxury,  the  shining 
quite  transcendent,  all  belong  to  the  mannerisms  which  th 


278 


NOTES. 


PAGE 

9  like  something  from  beyond 

His  present  being. 

It  is  the  essence  of  chivalry  —  its  picturesqueness,  its  tender- 
ness to  woman,  its  manly  elevation,  which  we  already  find  in  this 
Fragment.  But  the  tale  itself  is  yet  wanting;  —  we  have  the 
artist's  palette,  rather  than  his  picture.  —  P.  n,  I.  9  cat's  eyes: 
Country  name  for  the  Speedwell,  Veronica  Chamaedrys,  Linn. 

14  To  some  Ladies  :  This  and  the  next  two  poems,  without  the  aid 
given  by  the  note  on  p.  xiv,  might,  upon  internal  evidence  of 
manner,  be  safely  referred  to  the  earliest  surviving  work  of  Keats, 
written  perhaps  before  he  was  twenty,  or  had  fully  resigned  himself 
to  the  magic  of  Spenser.  The  style  here  is  manifestly  formed  on 
the  model  of  the  "  elegant"  writers  of  the  beginning  of  this  century, 
whose  influence  is  similarly  perceptible  in  the  first  poems  of  Byron 
or  Moore.  And  it  is  curious  to  note  how  wholly  different  is  the 
effect  between  the  picture  of  the  knight  given  us  in  Calidore, 
(with  all  its  immaturity  in  writing),  and  that  given  in  the  stanzas 
before  us  (p.  15,  16)  :  —  how,  in  place  of  the  chivalric  melody  and 
colors  of  Spenser,  we  have  something  not  far  removed  from  melo- 
dramatic tinsel,  nor  free  from  descent  into  simple  prosaicism. 

14  1.  29  Mrs.  Tighe  (died  1810)  is  still  faintly  remembered  as  authoress 
of"  Psyche,  or  The  Legend  of  Love,"  six  cantos  in  the  metre  of 
the  Faerie  Queetie,  a  poem  popular  when  Keats  wrote,  and 
which  is  in  truth  a  really  graceful  piece  of  pure  and  delicate 
work.  It  might  be  a  short  lyric  "  written  for  her  niece,"  and 
published  in  1816,  which  is  here  alluded  to  as  "  the  blessings  of 
Tighe."  I  give  the  first  lines:  — 

Sweetest !  if  thy  fairy  hand 

Culls  for  me  the  latest  flowers, 
Smiling  hear  me  thus  demand 

Blessings  for  thy  early  hours. 

But,  if  so,  the  poem,  (or  the  stanza),  can  hardly  belong  to  the 
earliest  work  of  Keats. 

In  st.  ii,  1.  2,  4,  the  rhyme  in  the  poet's  mind  answering  to 
bede^us  was  probably  muse. 

17  Hadst  thou  lived:  An  early  effort,  perhaps,  in  the  beautiful 
metre,  (rarely  seen  in  our  serious  poetry  since  Milton's  youth, 
probably  from  its  great  difficulty),  brought  to  perfection  by  Keats 
in  his  last  volume. 

ao  This  Imitation  is  the  earliest  known  poem  by  Keats,  according 
to  Lord  Houghton,  who  dates  it  in  1812.  A  somewhat  later  date 
would  appear  to  me  more  probable. 

21       Woman  :  What  union  of  manly  sense  and  exquisite  tenderness, 

—  not  without  amusing  boyish  candor,  —  in  these  three  Sonnets! 

—  which,  for  chivalrous  devotion  and  picturesqueness,  I  would 
class  between  the  best  of  Dante  and  Petrarch.     There  are  here 
faults  of  taste,  doubtless,  due  to  early  youth  and  the  bad  example 


NOTES.  279 

PACK 

21  of  some  among  the  models  by  whom  Keats  was  then  influenced- 
but  they  will  be  pardoned  easily  not  only  by  the  lovers  of  poetry 
itself,  but  by  those  who  know  how  strangely  rare,  in  our  recent 
verse,  is  the  note  of  disinterested  passion.  — "  One  sayine  of 
yours,  he  says,  in  a  letter  of  23  Jan.  1818  to  his  friend  Mr.  Bailey 
I  shall  never  forget:  you  may  not  recollect  it:  ...  merely  you 
said,  Why  should  woman  suffer?  '  Aye,  why  should  she?  'By 
heavens,  I  d  coin  my  very  soul,  and  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas! ' 
These  things  are,  and  he,  who  feels  how  incompetent  the  most 
skyey  knight-errantry  is,  to  heal  this  bruised  fairness,  is  like  a 
sensitive  leaf  on  the  hot  hand  of  thought."  —  But  this  is  a  noble 
sensitiveness. 

23  G.  F.  Mathew  :  An  early  friend  of  Keats,  described  by  Lord 
Houghton  as  "  of  high  literary  merit." 

23  1-  '7  f«r  different  cares  :  His  surgical  training  between  1810 
and  1817. 

26  George  Keats  :  Elder  brother  to  John :  died  in  Kentucky, 
1841. 

28  1.  25  The    pearls :    Apparently,    Tears    arise    from    the    very 
pleasure  of  smiling. 

29  1.  18  The  scarlet-coats :  So  in  a  letter  from  Carisbrooke  (Ap. 
17,  1817)  Keats  remarks:  "  On  the  road  from  Cowes  to  Newport 
I  saw  some  extensive  Barracks,  which  disgusted  me  extremely 
with  the  Government  for  placing  such  a  nest  of  debauchery  in  so 
beautiful  a  place.     I  asked  a  man  on  the  coach  about  this,  and  he 
said  that  the  people  had  been  spoiled." 

30  C.  C.   Clarke :   Son  to  the  master  of  the  school  at  Enfield 
where  Keats  was  educated  till  the  summer  of  1810.     Mr.  Clarke, 
who  was  a  man  of  considerable  literary  accomplishment,  died  in 
1877. 

—  1.  33  by  Mulla's  stream  :  The  reference  is  to  Spenser.  —  The  criti- 
cal estimates  of  poetry  given  here  (whilst  never  falling  below  the 
high  level  of  imaginative,  as  opposed  to  epigrammatic,  verse)  are 
of  singular  truth  and  beauty:  note  especially  the  "and  more, 
Miltonian  tenderness" ;  a  feature  in  that  great  Poet  which  is 
often  overlooked. 

32  1.  38  divine  Mozart  :  Keats  here,  as  usual,  shows  his  true  Poet's 
intuition.  Of  all  musicians,  Mozart  is  the  one  in  whom  the  pas- 
sion for  beauty,  the  cry  of  humanity,  are  most  eminent,  most 
constantly  audible.  Hence  the  supremacy  naturally  and  rightly- 
assigned  to  him. 

34  I  1.  3  laurel' d  peers  :  Spirits  of  heroes  dead? 

35  III   The  day  that  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  left  Prison  :  3  Feb.  1815. 
To  this  fortunate  incarceration  Hunt  has  owed  no  small  part  ol 
his   later  celebrity: —  although   its  direct   result, —  his  politico- 
literary  alliance  with  Lord  Byron,  —  was  unsatisfactory  for  both. 
For  this,  Hunt,  in  his  Autobiography,  generously  if  justly,  takts 
the  blame  to  himself. 


280  NOTES. 

PAGE 

36  V  To  a  Friend :  Charles  Wells,  —  who  gave  in  his  early 
poem,  Joseph  and  his  Brethren,  a  promise  which  was  never 
fulfilled,  —  with  Joseph  Severn,  to  the  last  the  faithful  friend  of 
Keats,  overlived  him  to  1879. 

39  XI     Chapman's   fine   paraphrase   was   put  before   Keats  by  his 
friend  C.  C.  Clarke,  and  they  sat  up  together  till  daylight  to  read 
it:  "  Keats  shouting  with  delight   as  some  passage  of  especial 
energy  struck  his  imagination.     At  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning, 
Mr.  Clarke  found  the  sonnet  on  his  breakfast- table." 

40  XII  1.  7  diamond  jar  :    Meant  to  express  the  flashing  of  dia- 
monds as  they  move  and  clash  ? 

41  XIV  That  frequent  absence  of  prophetic  insight  as  to  the  future 
fame  of  contemporaries  which  marks  not  a  few  of  Spenser's  judg- 
ments  on   his  fellow-poets  in  the   magnificent   Ca.'iti    Clout,    is 
shared  by  Keats   in   this    Sonnet.      Time,  indeed,   "  the   wisest 
witness,"  has  confirmed  the  verdict  given  upon  Wordsworth:  but 
Hunt,  despite  his  real  merits,  is  far  too  wanting  in  good  taste 
and  in  power,  to  deserve  the  "collateral  glory"  here  assigned: 
whilst  of  Haydon  we  may  now  say,  when  the  sad  story  of  his  life 
lies  far  behind  us,  that  the  pictures  which  he  left  testify  to  inborn 
incapacity  for  valid  success  in  the  art  to  which  he  devoted  himself 
with  unhappily  mistaken  ardor  and  perseverance:  — 

ibi  omnis  Effusus  labor! 

42  XVI  1.  7   And:    Are  is  conjecturally  read  in  the  Aldine  text. 
If  conjecture  be  needed,  I  would  retain  And,  inserting  are  before 
ever. 

43  Sleep  and  Poetry  :    This  fine,   though   unequal,  soliloquy  was 
manifestly  intended  by  Keats  to  form  the  Epilogue  to  his  first 
venture,  as  the  "I  stood"  (p.  i)   is  the  young  poet's  Prologue. 
A  more  sincere  avowal  was  never  made.     We  see  here  with  what 
modest  self-consciousness,  how  truly,  he  understood  his  art:  —  It 
alone  would  justify  me  (were  justification  needed),  for  this  literal 
reprint  of  the  text  which  passed  before  his  clear  and  sensitive  eyes. 

Keats  here  shows  that  whilst  yielding,  (as  in  the  Epistles  and 
other  pieces  which  begin  the  volume  of  1817),  to  the  pleasure  of 
frank  and  simple  description  of  Nature,  he  was  aware  how  Poetry, 
in  the  high  and  serious  sense  with  which  all  who  deserve  to  be 
called  Poets  always  regard  their  art,  must  have  far  other  and 
higher  aims; 

—  the  agonies,  the  strife 
Of  human  hearts:  — 

that  Beauty  alone,  even  to  this  Poet  of  the  Beautiful,  is  insufficient. 
And  if  the  "  real  things "  of  contemporary  life  press  on  him, 
bearing  his  sorl  down  "'  to  nothingness,"  he  thinks  of  the  great 
imaginative  literature  of  England  before  the  critical  period  of 
comparative  coldness  in  the  years  qf  the  latter  Stuarts  and  the 
eighteenth  century  (symbolized  here  by  Boileau),  and  gains 
strength  and  "delightful  hopes": — destined,  even  during  his 
short  life,  to  how  noble  a  fulfilment ! 

The  concluding  lines  describe  Leigh  Hunt's  library  in  his  little 
house  at  Hampstead. 


NOTES.  281 


49  1.  6  my  boundly  reverence:  Boundly  seems  an  invention  by 
Keats  to  signify  what  he  felt  bound  to  give. 

49  1-  27-32  These  lines  are  harshly  and  obscurely  expressed:  Keats 
appears  to  be  thinking  of  certain  "  themes  "  unfit  for  imaginative 
literature,  which  had  tempted, —  or  might  tempt,  — his  con.em- 
poranes  to  poetry  in   which   Beauty   should  be  supplanted  by 
simple  Strength :  —  comparing  such  subjects  to  the  clubs,  (altered 
to  cubs  in  most  editions),  with  which  Polyphemus  and  his  fellows 
pursued  Ulysses.  — It   is,  however,  difficult  to  identify  the  ap- 
parent allusion. 

50  1.  34  It  is  doubtful  whether  we  should  supply  me,  or  him,  after 
reach  ;  or  whether  Keats  here  thought  of  reach  as  a  dissyllable: 
—  as  (p.  52,  1.  18)  grand  seems  to  have  been  considered. 

53  1.  ii  liny  marble  :  The  epithet,  if  Keats  here  describes,  not  the 
veining,  but  the  sharp  thin  flutings  and  frieze-mouldings  of  a 
Greek  Temple,  is  singularly  felicitous. 

— 1.26  unshent  :  used  apparently  for  purified,  or  free  from. 

57  As  with  other  ancient  legends,  several  variations  of  the  story 
of  Endymion  have  reached  us.  Keats  has  followed  little  except 
the  mere  outline  of  the  simplest  form:  treating  him  as  a  Carian 
King,  who  slept  on  Mount  Latmos,  and  was  there  visited  by 
Selene.  He  has  passed  over  the  perpetual  sleep  which  is  the 
common  point  in  the  old  stories,  and,  in  itself,  is  sufficient  to 
show  that  the  modern  interpretation,  confidently  making  Endymion 
the  Sun,  and  resolving  the  poetry  of  the  myth  into  a  mode  of 
saying,  "  The  sun  sets  behind  a  mountain,  and  the  Moon  rises 
over  it,"  is  as  lame  as  it  is  prosaic. 

Keats  may  have  framed  Peona,  the  name  assigned  to  the  sister 
with  whom  he  provides  Endymion,  from  Pteana,  one  of  the  minor 
heroines  of  the  Faerie  Queetie  (B.  iv,  C.  8  and  9):  or  he  may 
have  had  in  view  Paean,  the  Healer  or  Deliverer; — the  name 
given  in  Greek  mythology  to  Asclepius.  —  But  neither  for  this 
poem,  nor  for  Hyperion,  have  I  cared  to  enquire  closely  into 
names  employed,  or  the  allusions  connected  with  them.  They 
seem  to  be  either  derived  from  the  common  mythological  works 
in  use  seventy  years  since,  or  invented  by  Keats  himself.  He 
has  here  a  predecessor,  perhaps  a  guide,  in  Spenser,  who,  (with 
wider  classical  knowledge  than  Keats  had  reached),  has  handled 
classical  legends  in  the  same  free,  inventive  way,  and  with  the 
same  indifference  to  correct  scholarship. 

Endymion,  in  truth,  despite  the  name,  is  not,  on  the  whole, 
more  genuinely  a  Grecian  tale  than  the  Faerie  Queene.  Keats 
need  not  have  feared,  with  his  charming  modesty,  that  he  had 
here  dulled  the  brightness  of  the  beautiful  mythology  of  Hellas. 
He  has  taken  hardly  more  than  that  the  goddess  Selene  loved  the 
youth  Endymion,  from  the  old  legend.  It  is  not  so  much  the 
canvas  as  the  framework  upon  which  he  has  woven  and  stretched 
a  romantic  piece  of  modern  embroidery.  To  give  this  simple  out- 
line extension,  a  few  of  the  best-known  myths  are  introduced: 
they  form  the  scenery,  as  it  were,  in  and  before  which  the  long 


282 


NOTES. 


PAGE 

57  narrative  of  passion,  —  or,  rather,  the  picture  of  passion,  for  vera 
passio  is  hardly  here,  —  unfolds  itself.  —  It  is  said  that,  on  some 
one  asking  how  Keats,  the  livery-stable-keeper's  son,  the  surgeon's 
apprentice,  could  have  learned  his  Grecian  allusions,  Shelley 
replied,  "  Because  he  -was  a  Greek."  In  the  enthusiastic  warmth 
of  this  fine  answer  Shelley  was,  probably,  thinking  of  Hyperion, 
the  one  poem  which,  —  at  any  rate  during  the  lifetime  of  Keats,  — 
he  admired.  Even  in  that,  however,  we  have  really  the  same 
romantic  (as  opposed  to  classical)  groundwork  which  we  find 
in  Endymion,  presented  under  a  Miltonic  disguisal. 

Where,  then,  are  we  to  look  for  the  Greek  element  in  Keats? 
Chiefest  and  best  I  find  it  in  that  gift  which  only  deserves  the 
name  because  it  is  exhibited  by  Greek  literature  more  perfectly 
and,  on  the  whole,  more  continuously  and  consistently  than  by 
any  other  literature :  —  the  gift  of  absolutely  direct  and,  as  it  were, 
spontaneous  expression  of  the  thought,  whether  of  description  or 
of  emotion,  before  the  poet.  Or  rather,  Nature  herself  appears  to 
speak  for  him :  the  words  come  by  inner  law ;  they  do  not,  as  such, 
strike  one  either  as  prose  or  as  poetry:  —  they  seem  as  if  they 
could  not  have  been  otherwise.  This  freedom  from  conventional 
color  or  phrase,  this  Simplicity,  in  one  word,  —  and  Lucidity 
and  Sanity  with  Simplicity,  —  is  what  marks  all  the  great  Hellenic 
poets,  from  Homer  to  the  followers  of  Theocritus.  When  read 
closely,  it  is  astonishing  how  little  the  diction  differs  from  prose, 
whilst  all  the  while  it  is  felt  to  be  the  purest,  the  most  essential, 
poetry.  The  early  education  of  Keats  had  not  given  him  the 
advantage  of  this  experience,  which,  with  longer  life,  he  would 
doubtless  have  attained.  Hence  one  may  say  that  he  has  done 
his  best,  by  overrichness  of  ornament,  and  by  a  vocabulary  sur- 
charged with  Elizabethan  verbal  experiments  and  modern  man- 
nerism,—  "luxury,"  to  take  a  favorite  word  of  his  youth,  —  to 
conceal  that  native  Hellenism  which  was  recognized  by  Shelley. 
A  similar  criticism  may  be  made,  not  unfrequently,  upon  the 
language  of  Shakespeare.  And  Shakespeare  himself,  also,  has 
hardly  displayed  a  nobler  simplicity,  a  more  complete  and  appro- 
priate directness  of  speech,  than  Keats  continually  offers  for  our 
enjoyment.  The  freshness  of  phrase,  going  straight  from  his 
imagination  to  ours,  the  absolute  sincerity  and  insight  of  the 
descriptive  touches,  even  in  the  volume  of  1817,  are  amazing. 
But  these  wonders,  as  Keats  himself  said  upon  Milton,  "  are, 
according  to  the  great  prerogative  of  poetry,  better  described  in 
themselves  than  by  a  volume."  —  I  had  thought  of  adding  exam- 
ples; but  the  reader  will  enjoy  them  most,  if  left  to  his  own  chase 
after  Beauty. 

This  word, — the  one  which  arises  first  upon  the  mind,  like 
sunshine,  at  the  very  name  of  Vergil,  Mozart,  or  Flaxman,  —  is 
also  our  first,  our  truest,  thought  in  the  case  of  that  child  of 
genius,  upon  whom,  with  reverent  diffidence,  these  notes  are 
offered.  Beauty,  with  him,  —  as  with  the  Greeks  above  all  the 
world, —  is  the  first  word  and  the  last  of  Art;  the  one  quality 
without  which  it  is  not.  In  this  respect,  again,  Keats  is  a  true 
son  of  Hellas.  Yet,  as  he  soon  felt  and  acknowledged,  in  his 
early  days  it  is  too  imich  the  beautiful  for  beauty's  sake  only, — 
too  much  its  outward  visible  form,  —  that  he  pursued.  It  is  at 


NOTES.  283 

PAGE 

57  this  period  that  we  find  that  splendid  outburst  of  delight  in  pure 
natural  loveliness  which  even  he  could  hardly  have  bettered  by 
verse:  — "  In  truth,  the  great  Elements  we  know  of,  are  no  mean 
comforters:  the  open  sky  sits  upon  our  senses  like  a  sapphire 
crown;  the  air  is  our  robe  of  state;  the  earth  is  our  throne,  and 
the  sea  a  mighty  minstrel  playing  before  it " :  —  and  again,  "  O 
for  a  life  of  sensations  rather  than  of  thoughts!  "  —  It  is  not  thus, 
however,  that  the  greater  poets  of  Greece  thought  and  wrote. 
With  them,  (as  indeed  with  most  writers  and  artists  till  modern 
times) ,  the  landscape  is  persistently  viewed  in  reference  to  human 
feeling  and  action,  or,  occasionally,  to  the  presence  of  divine 
beings  latent  in  or  about  stream  and  forest;  rarely  and  cursorily 
painted  for  its  own  sake  only.  Nor,  again,  despite  the  Hellenic 
passion  for  simple,  sensuous,  beauty,  (although  pushed  occasion- 
ally to  a  certain  extravagance  which  has  been  sometimes  taken 
for  its  normal  expression),  do  the  ancients  announce  such  a  wor- 
ship of  the  Beautiful,  in  this  external  sense,  for  its  own  sake,  as 
we  find  revealed  in  the  earlier  work  of  Keats.  If  they  seem  to  say 

Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty, 

the  Beautiful  was  taken  in  its  wider  and  deeper  meaning,  carrying 
with  it  the  ideas  of  eternal  Law,  of  divine  Justice,  of  the  Theoretit 
happiness,  man  living  on  earth  a  life  worthy  of  heaven,  whicK 
the  "  Master  of  those  who  know  "  set  forth  as  the  final  aim  of 
human  existence.  In  Beauty,  thus  considered,  —  Man,  with  hilt 
passions,  his  joys  and  griefs,  his  destiny,  —  the  world  beyond  the 
world,  the  things  beneath  the  veil,  —  formed  necessarily  the  princi- 
pal objects:  and  the  Lamia  and  the  Eve  of  Si.  Agnes  show  how 
soon  our  youthful  poet  began  to  move  into  that  loftier  sphere  in 
which  alone  a  thing  of  beauty  can  be  a  joy  for  ever. 

For  this  first,  simply-sensuous  Beauty-worship,  this  picture  of  < 
world  in  which  real  humanity,  with  right  and  wrong,  are  not  sc. 
much  excluded  as  not  recognized,  Keats  might  have  found  a 
precedent,  not  in  "  the  beautiful  mythology  of  Greece,"  referred  to 
in  the  Preface  to  Endymion,  but  in  the  beginning  of  the  later  hal 
of  the  Italian  Renaissance ;  the  great  age  of  Florentine  art  ant 
classicalism.  It  is,  however,  improbable  that  he  could  have  drunt 
deeply,  if  at  all,  at  that  source:  nor,  as  I  shall  presently  en 
deavor  to  show,  could  he  have  derived  his  direction  from  his  grea 
Master,  Spenser.  He  was,  I  conjecture,  led  in  part  by  the  torn 
of  mind,  bordering  closely  on  a  certain  moral  laxity,  which  h« 
was  conscious  of  in  Leigh  Hunt,  mostly  by  the  fervor  and  rush 
of  perceptive  and  imaginative  energy  which  boiled  like  a  torrent 
through  his  youthful  nature.  I  can  best  give  an  idea  of  this  by  a 
quotation,  — which  is  not  likely  to  be  thought  too  long  by  any 
reader  worthy  of  Keats,  — from  a  letter  written  on  his  nventy- 


nk 

admission  to  the  "  mysteries  of  the  studio." 
"  Notwithstanding  your  happiness  and  your  recommendations,  I 


«84  NOTES. 

PACK 

57  hope  I  shall  never  marry:  though  the  most  beautiful  creature  were 
waiting  for  me  at  the  end  of  a  journey  or  a  walk ;  though  the 
carpet  were  of  silk,  and  the  curtains  of  the  morning  clouds,  the 
chairs  and  sofas  stuffed  with  cygnet's  down,  the  food  manna,  the 
wine  beyond  claret,  the  window  opening  on  Winandermere,  I 
should  not  feel,  or  rather  my  happiness  should  not  be,  so  fine; 
my  solitude  is  sublime  —  for,  instead  of  what  I  have  described, 
there  is  a  sublimity  to  welcome  me  home;  the  roaring  of  the  wind 
is  my  wife;  and  the  stars  through  the  window-panes  are  my  chil- 
dren; the  mighty  abstract  Idea  of  Beauty  in  all  things,  I  have, 
stifles  the  more  divided  and  minute  domestic  happiness.  .  .  . 
I  feel  more  and  more  every  day,  as  my  imagination  strength- 
ens, that  I  do  not  live  in  this  world  alone,  but  in  a  thousand 
worlds.  No  sooner  am  I  alone,  than  shapes  of  epic  greatness  are 
stationed  around  me,  and  serve  my  spirit  the  office  which  is  equiv- 
alent to  a  King's  Body-guard:  "then  Tragedy  with  scepter'd 
pall  comes  sweeping  by;  "  according  to  my  state  of  mind,  I  am 
with  Achilles  shouting  in  the  trenches,  or  with  Theocritus  in  the 
vales  of  Sicily;  or  throw  my  whole  being  into  Troilus,  and,  repeat- 
ing those  lines,  "  I  wander  like  a  lost  soul  upon  the  Stygian  bank, 
staying  for  waftage,"  I  melt  into  the  air  with  a  voluptuousness  so 
delicate,  that  I  am  content  to  be  alone." 

The  letters  of  Keats,  and,  in  some  degree,  his  last  poems,  show 
that  it  was  not  from  want  of  manly  power,  lofty  purpose,  or  inter- 
est in  humanity,  that  he  thought  and  wrote  in  this  almost  Epicu- 
rean strain:  — although  it  is  idle  to  conjecture  in  what  direction 
his  great  genius,  —  greater  in  promise,  as  his  illustrious  successor 
in  Poetry  has  more  than  once  remarked  to  me,  than  any  born 
among  us  since  Milton,  —  would  have  exhibited  its  maturity. 
The  want  of  high,  human,  aim  in  its  noblest  sense  is,  however,  the 
point  in  which  Keats  most  differs  from  that  Master  to  whom  in 
early  youth  he  was  mainly  indebted.  In  the  prefatory  letter  to 
the  Faerie  Queene  Spenser,  —  "our  sage  and  serious  Spenser," 
as  Milton  named  him,  —  himself  sets  forth  as  his  object,  "to 
fashion  a  gentleman  or  a  noble  person  in  vertuous  and  gentle 
discipline."  "  No  one."  says  Mr.  Aubrey  de  Vere  in  a  recent 
Essay,  published  in  Dr.  Grosart's  edition,  "  no  one  was  more 
familiar  with  forest  scenery,  or  with  the  charm  of  mead  and 
meadow  and  river-bank ;  but  he  left  it  for  poets  of  a  later  age  to 
find  in  natural  description  the  chief  sphere  for  the  exercise  of 
their  faculties.  He  lived  too  near  the  chivalrous  age  of  action  and 
passion.  .  .  .  His  imagination  and  his  affections  followed  the 
mediaeval  type.  All  that  he  saw  was  to  him  the  emblem  of  things 
unseen;  the  material  world  thus  became  the  sacrament  of  a  spirit- 
ual world,  and  the  earthly  life  a  betrothal  to  a  life  beyond  the 
grave."  So  Professor  Dowden,  in  his  equally  able  Essay :  — 
"  The  high  distinction  of  Spenser's  poetry  is  to  be  found  in  the 
rare  degree  in  which  it  unites  sense  and  soul,  moral  seriousness 
and  the  Renaissance  appetite  for  beauty.  .  .  .  With  all  its  opu- 
lence of  color  and  melody,  with  all  its  imagery  of  delight,  the 
Faerie  Queene  has  primarily  a  moral  of  spiritual  intention. 
While  Spenser  sees  the  abundant  beauty  of  the  world,  and  the 
splendor  of  man  and  of  the  life  of  man,  his  vision  of  human  life 
is  grave  and  even  stern." 


NOTES.  285 

PAGE 

57  It  will  easily  be  seen  how  far  the  Endymion  falls  below  this 
ideal,  and  suffers,  hence,  in  sustained  interest.     In  one  element 
indeed,  he  was  without  Spenser's  advantage: —Medieval  types 
as  employed  throughout  the  Faerif  Queene,  were  not  available 
for  Keats.    That  element  he  has  replaced  by  recurrence  to  Grecian 
mythology.     And,  —  had  he  rendered   this   in  its  vital  essence, 
though   more  remote  in  time  than  Medievalism,  its  beauty  and 
its  breadth  of  human  nature  might  have  supplied  some  compensa- 
tion.    As  it  is,  the  somewhat  external  Hellenism  which  he  repro- 
duced  here   and    (though   in   severer  style)    in  Hyperion,   was 
incapable  of  supplying  adequate,  body  or  unity  to  the  narrative. 
These  poems  want  the  unifying  "  architectonic  "  faculty :  —  the 
"touch  of  nature"  that  gives  life  to  the  whole. —  But  the  Poet, 
(whose  perfect  modesty  in  regard  to  his  own  work  is  in  curious 
contrast  with  the  over-frequent  self-laudation  of  Spenser),  him- 
self remarked  upon  Endymion  :  "  I  have  most  likely  but  moved 
into  the  go-cart  from  the  leading-strings." 

As  a  true  artist,  Keats  knew  his  own  deficiencies:  nor  does 
Shelley's  estimate  of  Endymion,  both  at  the  time  of  publication 
and  when  he  wrote  his  letter  of  remonstrance  to  Mr.  Gifford, 
(1820),  view  the  poem  more  favorably.  It  would  be  more  agree- 
able to  dwell  here  upon  the  magical  beauties  of  detail  which  even 
in  Spenser  himself  are  not  more  frequent  or  more  magical.  One 
might  transfer  Ben  Jonson's  name  for  his  own  minor  poems  to 
Endymion  :  It  is  not  so  much  a  forest,  as  Underwoods.  Or  we 
may  think  of  the  luxuria  foliar  um  of  that  tree  in  the  Garden  of 
Proserpine  described  by  Spenser, 

Clothed  with  leaves,  that  none  the  wood  mote  see, 
And  loaden  all  with  fruit  as  thick  as  it  might  bee. 
Splendid  as  are  the  foliage  and  the  flowers,  Endymion  is  an 
almost  pathless  intricacy  of  story:  a  Paradise  without  a  plan. 
What  page,  however,  is  there  here  in  which  the  Poet  does  not 
give  us  lines  or  touches  so  fresh,  so  vigorous,  so  directly  going 
to  the  very  heart  of  Nature,  that  more  of  essential  Poetry  is  con- 
centrated in  one  than  can  be  found  in  whole  volumes  by  his  imi- 
tators? I  had  marked  many  such  phrases: — but,  as  noticed 
before,  they  are  best  left  for  the  reader  s  delight  and  discernment. 
Meanwhile,  a  few  words  by  the  Poet's  biographer  may  close  this 
over-lengthy  attempt.  "  Let  us  never  forget,"  says  Lord  Hough- 
ton,  "  that,  wonderful  as  are  the  poems  of  Keats,  yet,  after  all,  they 
are  rather  the  records  of  a  poetical  education,  than  the  accom- 
plished work  of  the  mature  artist."  Even  thus,  however,  what  poet, 
in  the  whole  range  of  literature,  at  twenty-four,  has  rivalled  them? 

58  1.  13-31  Endymion  was  begun,  (it  seems  at  Carisbrooke,)  April 
1817:    by  September  following,  (at  Oxford,)  he  had  reached  B. 
iii:   B.  iv  was  finished  on  28  November;  B.  i  was  given  to  the 
publisher  January  1818.     "  I  am  anxious  to  get  Endvmion  printed 
that  I  may  forget  it,  and  proceed,"  Keats  says  with  his  usual  utter 
and  delightful  modesty,  in  a  letter  of  27  February.     The  lovely 
Preface  is  dated  10  April. 

66  1.  14  the  raft  Branch  :  Apparently,  the  branch  torn  off.     Keats, 
who  may  have  taken  the  word  from  Spenser,  appears  either  not 


286  NOTES. 

PAGE 

to  have  noticed  the  want  of  a  syllable  in  1.  15,  or  to  have  satisfied 
his  ear  with  the  words  as  they  stand. 

68  1.  15  The  last  word  of  this  line,  with  eight  others  in  Endytnion, 
is,  —  I  do  not  doubt,  intentionally,  —  left  without  a  rhyme. 

69  1.  37-38  One  of  the  rare  touches  of  exquisite  human  feeling  which 
Keats  has  allowed  himself,  —  perhaps,  which  his  chosen  subject 
and  treatment  allowed  him,  —  in  Endymion  :  —  a   poem,  under 
this  aspect,  curiously  contrasted  with  the  Isabella  and  the  St. 
Agnes. 

70  1.  20-22  "  A  substantive,"  says  Professor  Earle,  "  may  suddenly 
by  a  vigorous  stroke  of  art  be  transformed   into  an   adverb,  as 
forest  in  the  following  passage : 

more  forest  wild." 
(Philology  of  the  English  Tongue:  1873). 

72  1.  7  ditamy,  dittany:  In  Old  French,  dictamc ;  whence,  prob- 
ably, the  spelling  used  by  Keats. 

77  I.  8-17  This  analysis  of  Sleep  and  Dream  is  worthy  of  Shake- 
speare, in  Shakespeare's  best  manner. 

85  1.  8-12  Keats  here  alludes  to  the  ill-success  of  his  volume  of  1817. 

—  1.  13  chaffing :  chafing. 

—  1.  34  pight :  placed. 

92  1.  23  "  zephyr-boughs  among,"  the  common  reading  here,  was 
probably  in  the  mind  of  Keats.  But  with  a  poet  of  literary  train- 
ing so  incomplete,  so  unconventional,  and  of  such  imaginative 
force,  conjectural  emendation,  to  which  his  abnormal  phrases  and 
rhythms  tempt,  is  even  more  than  ordinarily  uncertain  and  unde- 
sirable.—  The  verbal  peculiarities  of  Keats  I  have  hence,  also,  in 
general  left  unnoticed.  He  copied  much,  no  doubt,  from  our 
elder  poets:  but  he  also  invents  with  the  freedom  which  is  one 
of  the  prerogatives  of  all  Poetry,  and  of  all  language  in  a  vital 
condition. 

94  1.  29  tenting:  perhaps,  (it  has  been  suggested  to  me,)  referring 
to  the  drapery  of  Adonis,  stretched  from  knee  to  knee. 

95  1.  35  Since  Ariadne  became  companion  to  Dionysos. 

—  1.  37   Vertumnus  :  This  name,  with  Pomona,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  Italian  Renaissance,  carries  us  abruptly  from  Hellenic  to 
Graeco-Roman  mythology.  —  The  Cupid  picture  (p.  97,  1.  20)  u 
classical,  but  in  a  similar  vein. 

104  1.  12  In  this  amorous  extravagance,  —  which  reminds  us  of  the 
conceits  of  Lovelace,  rather  than  of  the  Ancients,  —  it  is  probably 
idle  to  enquire  why  Ida  is  introduced. 

107  1.  12  Hermes'  pipe  :  Argus  was  thus  lulled  to  sleep  as  he  was 
guarding  lo,  and  slain  by  Heroics  at  command  of  Zeus. 


NOTES.  287 

PACK 

us  1.  1-20  "  It  was  an  unfortunate  occurrence,"  writes  Lord  Hough- 
ton,  narrating  the  introduction  of  Keats  to  Leigh  Hunt  and  his 
associates,  "  that  Keats  became  unwittingly  identified,  not  only 
with  a  literary  coterie,  with  whose  specialties  he  had  little  in 
common,  but  with  a  supposed  political  association  for  revolution- 
ary objects  with  which  he  entertained  nothing  beyond  the  vaguest 
sympathy."  —  In  this  atmosphere  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  Poet's 
wing  should  flag,  and  his  verse  go  heavily.  But  he  soon  renews 
his  mighty  youth;  — nor  has  the  whole  poem  a  lovelier  passage, 
nor  one  more  deeply  felt,  than  the  moonlight  landscape  which 
concludes  the  paragraph. 

Lines  26-31,  p.  122,  on  the  other  hand,  are  a  specimen  of  the 
singular  prose  matter  which  occasionally  occurs,  entwined  in 
the  golden  tissue  of  the  song.  This  lapse  seems  to  me  especially 
to  characterize  the  transitions,  (always  so  difficult  to  manage),  in 
the  story. 

115  1.  17  Two  other  magnificent  pictures  of  the  world  beneath  sea 
may  be  compared  with  this:  Clarence's  dream  in  Richard  III, 
and  the  vision  related  by  Panthea  in  Prometheus  Unbound, 
Act  iv.  —  Keats,  at  twenty-two,  fairly  rises  to  his  place  beside 
Shakespeare  and  Shelley. 

123  1.  i  Hercules:  From  Cades  to  Egypt. 

139  1.  4  Doris :  daughter  to  Oceanus,  and  wife  of  the  wise  Nereus, 
—  named  sometimes  the  Aegaean,  as  finding  in  that  sea  his  chief 
seat  of  empire. 

143  1.  3  in  twain  should  here,  doubtless,  follow/or  them. 

152  1.  35  dadale:  Appears  used  for  variable. 

153  1.  24  throe:  possibly,  to  tremble:  or,  to  throw,  in  its  sens:  of 
twisting  and  turning. 

154  1    15-155  1.  8  This  strongly  felt  and  written  psychological  pict- 
ure   seems  to   reveal   the  seriousness  of  the  poet's   later  years, 
when  the  sensuous  beauty-world  of  boyhood  was  no  longer  suffi- 
cient to  distract  the  soul  from  the  "burthen  of  the   mystery, 
which  no  highly-gifted  spirit  can  long  escape  recognizing. 

156  1.  27  shent:  disgraced. 

158  1.  70  This  line  presents  the  single  clear  trace  of  experience  derived 
from  his  medical  training  which  I  am  aware  of,  in  all  the  poetry 
of  Keats.     The  absence  of  such  is  remarkable;  for  anatomy  and 
physiology  are  fertile  in  suggestive  images,  beautiful  or  pow 
fill,  for  poetry. 


feeling,  which  seems  to  me  similarly  prelusive 


288 


NOTES. 


PACK 

161   1.   ii  Alludes,  presumably,  to  Hyperion. 

165  1.  39  /  said:  Endymion  here,  soliloquizing,  refers  to  the 
phrase  in  I.  25,  and  it  is  needless  to  change  the  pronoun  for 
"  he":  See  note,  p.  92,  1.  23. 

170  For  this  note  Messrs.  Taylor  and  Hessey,  the  publishers,  ap- 
pear to  be  responsible.     The  reason  here  alleged  for  the  abandon- 
ment of  Hyperion  may  have  coexisted  in  the  mind  of  Keats  with 
that  which  can  be  inferred  from  his  letter  of  Sep.  22,  1819,  quoted 
later  on.     It  should  be  noticed  that  he  is  named  on  the  title-page 
as  "  Author  of  Endymion." 

"  My  book  is  coming  out,"  Keats  says  of  this  little  volume 
(Summer,  1820),  "with  very  low  hopes,  though  not  spirits,  on 
my  part.  This  shall  be  my  last  trial;  "  —  Alas!  and  it  was  so  — : 
"  not  succeeding,  I  shall  try  what  I  can  do  in  the  apothecary 
line."  With  this  compare  Shelley's  remark  (Feh  1821)  upon  the 
failure,  as  he  believed,  of  his  Cenci:  "  Nothing  is  more  difficult 
and  unwelcome  than  to  write  without  a  confidence  of  finding 
readers."  \ 

171  Lamia,  in  hand  by  July  12,  was  finished  by  September  5,  1819. 
I  give  these  and  similar  dates,  because  in  the  short  life  and  (if 
the  phrase  may  be  admitted)  tropical  rapidity  of  growth  in  the  mind 
and  powers  of  Keats,  months  count  like  the  years  of  advance  in 
case  of  ordinary  mortals.     Lamia,  placed  first  in  the  volume  of 
1820,  may,   however,  be  considered  as  his   last  poem:    written 
"  with  great  care,  and  after  much  study  of   Dryden's  versifica- 
tion."    "  I  have  great  hopes  of  success,"  says  Keats  in  his  letter 
of  12  July  1819   "  because  I   make  use  of  my  judgment   more 
deliberately  than  I  have  yet  done ;  but  in  case  of  failure  with  the 
world,  I  shall  find  my  content." 

The  clear,  close  narration,  and  the  metre  of  Lamia,  reveal  at 
once  the  influence  of  Dryden's  Tales:  Keats  here  freely  admits 
the  Alexandrine,  and  the  couplet-structure  is  much  more  marked 
than  in  Endymion  or  the  Epistles:  while  he  has  admirably 
found  and  sustained  the  balance  between  a  blank-verse  treatment 
of  the  "  Heroic"  and  the  epigrammatic  form  carried  to  perfection 
by  Pope.  A  little  of  the  early  mannerism  remains:  but  those 
over-daring  strokes  of  imaginative  diction,  those  epithets  jarringly 
bold  or  familiar,  which  we  find  in  the  volumes  of  1817  and  1818, 
have  here  given  place  to  the  secure  and  lucid  touches  of  mas- 
terly art.  Details  no  longer  urge  themselves  forward  in  lavish 
and  bewildering  profusion:  the  whole  is  supreme  over  the  parts, 
every  word  in  its  place,  and  yielding  its  effect  in  fulness.  The 
rhyme,  in  Endymion  often  forced,  is  managed  with  an  "  opulent 
ease,"  a  Spenserian  fluency.  Lamia  leaves  on  my  ear  an  echo 
like  the  delicate  richness  of  Vergil's  hexameter  in  the  Eclogues: 
the  note  of  his  magical  inner  sweetness  is,  in  some  degree,  reached 
upon  a  different  instrument.  I  offer  this  as  an  illustration,  with- 
out wishing  to  press  far  the  parallel  between  the  two  great  Poets; 

wi 

Sile 

and  continuity  of  the  metre. 


NOTES.  289 

PAGE 

171  After  the  remarks  on  the  Hellenism  of  Keats  in  my  note  upon 
Endymion,  it  may  be  enough  here  to  add  that  Lamia  is  truly 
Greek  in  its  direct  lucidity  of  phrase,  in  its  touches  fresh  from 
Nature,  in  its  descriptive  details  subordinated  to  serious  human 
interest.  It  is  Greek  also,  (though  of  a  lower  phase),  in  its 
simple  sensuousness,  which  indeed,  at  times,  though  rarely,  (as 
in  p.  180,  1.  8-13,  20-25),  passes  the  line  of  taste:  whilst  here, 
also,  the  Peris  and  Adam  touch  a  dissonant  chord.  Some  writers 
of  modern  date  have  gained  the  praise  of  being  Greek  by  linguistic 
turns,  quaint  archaeological  accuracy,  or  baldness  supposed  statu- 
esque: —  Keats  cares  for  none  of  these  things;  so  far  as  he  is 
Greek,  he  is  so  by  birthright;  yet,  as  mere  truthful  description, 
nothing,  probably,  can  be  found  more  true  to  Hellenic  life  than 
such  a  picture  as  that  given,  —  p.  180,  1.  30-  p.  181,  1.  5  —  of 
Corinth  at  night-fall. 

Lamia  is,  however,  essentially  "  romantic  "  rather  than  "  clas- 
ical," —  as  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  is  a  frank  piece  of  medieval 


sica 
legend. 


egen. 

Poetry  more  absolutely  and  triumphantly  poetical  than  these 
two  tales  display,  I  know  in  no  literature:  if  the  estimate  may  be 
hazarded,  they  appear  to  me  emphatically  the  masterpieces  among 
the  Poet's  longer  work. 

173  1.  18  the  star  of  Lethe  :  Hermes,  apparently,  is  here  thus  named 
in  allusion  to  his  office  of  soul-leader  from  life  to  Tartarus. 

176  1.  i  Whither  fled  Lamia  :  Cenchreae  is  a  seaport  on  the  south 
side  of  the  Isthmus  of  Corinth;  the  Peraea,  a  mountainous  district 
to  north-west.  Cleone  lies  to  the  southward. 

—  1.  28  unshent  :  Keats  here  seems  to  use  this,  one  of  his  favorite 
old  words,  as  equivalent  to  maiden. 

193  Isabella  :  finished  by  27  Ap.  1818,  at  Teignmouth.  The  source 
is  Boccaccio's  Decamerone,  Gior.  iv,  Nov.  5,  where  the  tale  is 
placed  in  the  mouth  of  Philomena.  But  the  story,  rather  baldly 
told,  is  without  the  fine  detail,  the  touches  of  character,  the  depth 
of  sentiment,  —  the  poetry,  in  short,  with  which  Keats  has  clothed 
it.  In  St.  xix  he  makes  a  graceful  apology  for  his  enlargement 
of  the  original  theme  by  the  episode  upon  Isabella's  brothers  and 
their  trading  ventures.  Boccaccio,  true  to  his  usual  creeping 
morality,  treats  their  conduct  to  Lorenzo  as  a  piece  of  natural 
common  sense.  —  The  old  literary  superstition,  (analogous  to  that 
which  placed  Ariosto  among  the  supreme  poets,  or  Guido  among 
the  supreme  painters,  of  the  world,)  clinging  still  about  Boccaccio, 
influenced  Leigh  Hunt,  and,  probably  through  him,  Keats.  But 
although  the  Decamerone  had  great  value  in  its  own  day  as 
master-work  in  style,  singularly  graceful  and  lucid  in  point  of 
narrative  diction,  yet  it  really  contains  very  few  stones  which, 
even  looking  to  bare  plan  and  form,  have  any  poetical  merit 
whilst  in  his  moralization  and  the  general  character  of  his  tales, 
Boccaccio  is  own  brother  to  Polonius.  Even  the  skill  and  taste 
of  Keats  have  not  here  fully  succeeded  in  turning  the  coarse, 
physical  motives  common  to  the  Decamerone  and  other  medieval 


290 


NOTES. 


PAGE 

193  stories,  into  beauty.  Yet  the  pathos  and  picturesqueness  of  the 
whole  is  such  that  we  have  no  reason  to  regret  that  song  upon 
the  fate  of  the  lovers  which,  (according  to  Philomena,)  "  anchora 
hoggi  si  canta,"  —  in  Naples  or  Messina. 

195  St.  ix  Some  overcolor,  some  overpressure  of  the  phrase  remains 
here:  so  in  st.  xiii:  —  Keats  has  not  yet  reached  the  self-restraint 
and  clearness  of  his  latest  work.  But  the  rhyme  is  very  rarely 
forced. 

197  st.  xvi,  xvii  The  general  sense  of  these  stanzas  is  more  intelligible 
than  the  expression,  in  which  closeness  and  condensation  pass 
into  obscurity.  Haivks  of  the  ship-mast  forests  I  take  to  be, 
Ready  to  pounce  on  the  trading-vessels  as  they  come  in :  Malay, 
Oriental  trade  in  general. 

207  st.  1,  1.  i  the  Persean  sword  :  Perseus,  the  slayer  of  Medusa. 

208  st.  liv,  1.  8  leafits  :  In  this  pretty  diminutive,  (whether  borrowed 
by  Keats  or  coined,)   the  analogy  of  floweret  may  have  been 
followed. 

212  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  :  Keats,  doubtless,  was  indebted  for  his 
subject  to  Brand's  "  Popular  Antiquities,"  1795.  "  On  the  eve 
of  her  day,"  21  Jan.,  that  writer  says,  "  many  kinds  of  divination 
were  practised  by  virgins  to  discover  their  future  husbands."  He 
cites  some  lines,  assigned  to  Ben  Jonson,  upon  the  subject,  and 
refers  to  Burton's  "  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,"  as  speaking  of 
"  Maids  fasting  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve,  to  know  who  shall  be  their 
first  husband."  A  long  quotation  from  an  old  chap-book  then 
gives  the  legend  in  detail;  — furnishing  obviously  the  outline  of 
our  poem. 

St.  Agnes'  wool  (st.  xiii)  is  that  shorn  from  two  lambs  which, 
(allusive  to  the  Saint's  name,)  were  upon  that  day  brought  to 
Mass,  and  offered  whilst  the  Agnus  was  chanted.  The  wool  was 
then  spun,  dressed,  and  woven  by  the  hand  of  Nuns. 

It  is,  apparently,  as  a  poetical  contrast  to  the  fasting  which 
was  generally  accepted  as  the  due  method  by  which  a  maiden 
was  to  prepare  herself  for  the  Vision,  that  the  gorgeous  supper- 
picture  of  st.  xxx  was  introduced.  Keats,  who  was  Leigh  Hunt's 
guest  at  the  time  when  this  volume  appeared,  read  aloud  the 
passage  to  Hunt,  with  manifest  pleasure  in  his  work :  —  the  sole 
instance  I  can  recall  when  the  poet,  — modest  in  proportion  to  his 
greatness,  —  yielded  even  to  so  innocent  an  impulse  of  vanity. 

212  A  fine  remark  by  Mr.  A.  de  Vere  upon  the  Faerie  Queene 
is  equally  applicable  to  this  Poem,  and  also  to  Lamia:  — 
"  The  gift  of  delineating  beauty  finds  perhaps  its  most  arduous 
triumph  when  exercised  on  the  description  of  incident,  a  thing 
that  passes  necessarily  from  change  to  change,  —  and  not  on  per- 
manent objects,  which  less  elude  the  artist's  eye  and  hand." 

"  There  is  a  tendency  to  class  women  in  my  books  with  roses 
and  sweetmeats,  —  they  never  see  themselves  dominant,"  said 
Keats,  (about  Aug.  1820,)  alluding  to  a  report  that  his  last  book 
was  unpopular  among  them.  This  remark  applies,  perhaps, 


NOTES.  29.1 


PAGE 


an  most  to  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes.  Keats  did  not  live  long  enough  to 
attain,  —  as,  despite  his  own  criticism,  many  passages  in  his 
poems  show  that  he  would  have  attained,  —  the  standard  of  his 

§reat  Master,  of  whom  Professor  Dowden  truly  notes  that  "  For 
penser,  behind  each  woman  made  to  worship  or  love,  rises  a 
sacred  presence  —  Womanhood  itself." 

This  magnificent  poem  was  written  by  Feb.,  and  revised  in 
Sep.  1819. 

a»3  st.  vi-viii  The  mode  in  which  Keats, —  that  Elizabethan  born 
out  of  due  time,  —  here  and  elsewhere,  as  in  Isabella,  "  dallies 
with  the  innocence  of  love,  Like  the  old  age,"  seems  to  me  rather 
the  na'ivete^  of  Medievalism  than  of  Antiquity. 

217  st.  xix,  1.  9  Merlin:  Can  it  have  been  that  a  confused  recol- 
lection of  the  tale  how  Uther,  transformed  by  Merlin  into  the 
likeness  of  Gorlois,  loved  Igerna  in  Tintagel,  by  night,  was  in  the 
poet's  mind  ? 

219  st.  xxv,  1.  2  gules:  a  heraldic  term  for  red:  —  transmitted  here 
through  the  coat-of-arms  in  the  casement. 

221  st.  xxx,  1.  5  soother:  seems  used  for  sweeter,  or  softer. 
223  st.  xxxvii_/?aa».-  flying  blast. 

225  Nightingale:  What  language,  except  ours,  is  honored  by 
three  such  splendid  bird-songs  as  Skylark  and  Nightingale  have 
received  from  Wordsworth,  Shelley,  and  Keats?  —  His  was 
written  in  the  spring  of  1819,  and  is  one  of  the  six  or  eight 
among  his  poems  so  unique  and  perfect  in  style,  that  it  is  hard  to 
see  how  any  experience  could  have  improved  them. 

228  Grecian  Urn:   The  rhyme-formulae  of  the  latter  six  lines  are 
here  curiously  varied. 

Had  the  first  and  last  stanzas  been  throughout  equal  to  the 
second,  third,  and  fourth,  this  Ode  would  have  had  few  rivals  in 
our,  or  any,  literature. 

229  st.  iv,  1.  7  this  folk:  its  (for  this)  has  less  improbability  than 
the  great  majority  of  the  alterations  which  the  ordinary  editions 
present. 

aao,  Psyche:  Upon  this  noble  Ode,  where  Collins  and  Gray  may 
have  been  before  his  mind,  Keats,  in  a  letter  of  Ap.  1819,  re- 
marks: "The  following  poem,  the  last  I  have  written,  is  the 
first  and  only  one  with  which  I  have  taken  even  moderate  pains; 
I  have,  for  the  most  part,  dashed  off  my  lines  in  a  hurry;  this  one 
I  have  done  leisurely:  I  think  it  reads  the  more  richly  for  it,  and 
it  will  I  hope  encourage  me  to  write  other  things  in  even  a 
more  peaceable  and  healthy  spirit.  You  must  recollect  that 
Psyche  was  not  embodied  as  a  goddess  before  the  time  of  Apuleius 
the  Platonist,  who  lived  after  the  Augustan  age,  and  consequently 
the  goddess  was  never  worshipped  or  sacrificed  to  with  any  of  the 
ancient  fervor,  and  perhaps  never  thought  of  in  the  old  religion :  I 
am  more  orthodox  than  to  let  a  heathen  goddess  be  so  neglected. 


292  NOTES. 

PAGE 

229  st.  i,  1.  4  soft-cone hrd:  like  a  soft  shell.     Tyrian  (1.  14) :  doubt- 
less, purple.  —  St.  iv,  1.  (>,Jiedge:  furnish  with  feathers. 

231      Fancy:  Written,  apparently,  by  Nov.  1817.    I  know  no  other 


Robin  Hood  and  the  Linet  on  the  Mermaid  were  in  existence  by 
Feb.  1818.  —  These  four  little  masterpieces,  if  compared  with  the 
lines  Hadst  thou  lived  (p.  17),  show  the  rapid  advance,  —  the 
exotic  growth,  —  of  the  poet's  powers. 


238  Autumn:  Sep.  1819.  Another  masterpiece:  If,  in  the  vulgar 
sense,  not  Greek,  essentially  it  is  more  so  than  Hyperion:  it  is 
such  as  a  Theocritus  might  have  longed  to  write. 


239  Melancholy:  Earlier,  perhaps,  than  the  preceding  Ode.  It  has 
(to  me)  more  of  youthful  mannerism.  But  this  may  be  due  to 
the  somewhat  morbid  and  over-subtle  nature  of  the  subject  here 
handled  by  Keats,  which  a  little  out-ran  his  psychological  powers. 
His  letters  furnish  several  analogous  speculative  passages,  full  of 
interest  and  of  promise,  even  in  the  tentativeness  and  immaturity 
which  the  writer  avows. 

341  Hyperion:  Begun  in  Dec.  1818:  in  hand  during  the  next 
autumn:  dropped  Sep.  1819. 

This  famous  fragmentary  poem  seems  to  have  afforded  Keats 
less  satisfaction  than  any  other  of  his  works.  It  was  printed,  as 
the  "  Advertisement"  shows,  at  his  Publishers'  desire,  "  and  con- 
trary to  the  wish  of  the  author."  Still  later,  he  "  re-cast  it  into 
the  shape  of  a  Vision,  which  remains  equally  unfinished."  "  I 
have  given  up  Hyperion"  Keats  writes  from  Winchester,  Sep.  22, 
1819  "  — there  were  too  many  Miltonic  inversions  in  it — Mil  tonic 
verse  cannot  be  written  but  in  an  artful,  or  rather,  artist's  humor. 
I  wish  to  give  myself  up  to  other  sensations.  English  ought  to 
be  kept  up."  This  phrase  apparently  refers  to  the  mood  in  which 
he  had  just  written  those  noble  lines  to  Autumn,  which  I  put, 
with  Lamia,  and  five  or  six  more  pieces,  amongst  his  maturest 
work;  the  work  wherein  art  touches  its  genuine  triumph  in  con- 
cealing itself:  the  work  which,  in  matter  and  manner  alike, 
embodies  his  most  essential,  his  most  intimate,  genius.  And,  in 
the  remarks  which  follow,  the  poet  clearly  shows  a  consciousness 
that  in  Hyperion  the  "  artist's  humor"  was  too  prevalent:  "  the 
false  beauty,  proceeding  from  art,"  blended  with  "  the  true  voice 
of  feeling."  —  Keats,  criticising  here  for  the  last  time  his  own 
work,  touches  on  the  note  which  is  most  sensible  in  his  poetry,  as 
it  is  that  which  lay  the  deepest  in  his  own  nature.  Almost  more 
than  passion  for  beauty,  —  although,  indeed  it  is,  rather,  itself 
the  fine  flower  of  beauty,  —  tenderness,  —  almost  passing  into 
tremulousness,  —  seems  to  me  his  characteristic.  Here  and  there, 
whilst  he  was  little  more  than  a  boy,  we  hear  this  note  in  excess. 
But  Keats,  in  both  the  qualities  just  named,  true  child  of  Spenser, 
has  also  the  manliness  of  nature,  the  sanity  of  sentiment,  which 
underlie  everywhere  that  ripple  of  gold  which  ripples  through 
the  Faerie  Queen*.  Beyond  any  of  his  great  compeers  during 


NOTES.  293 

PAGE 

241  the  last  two  centuries,  (if  I  may  here  venture  thus  to  sum  up  the 
imperfect  criticisms  on  his  genius  which  are  offered  in  these 
notes,)  Keats  had  inherited,  not  only  as  Man  but  as  Poet,  —  or 
rather,  as  Poet  because  he  was  so  as  Man,  —  the  inspiration  and 
the  magnanimity  of  the  great  age  of  our  Muses ;  —  more  than  any, 
he  is  true  English-Elizabethan :  —  Had  the  years  of  Milton  been 
destined  for  him,  of  him,  more  than  of  any  other  it  might  have 
been  prophesied, 

Fortunate  puer !     Tu  nunc  eris  alter  ab  illo. 

Despite  the  marvellous  grandeur  of  its  execution,  the  judgment 
of  Keats  upon  this  work  appears  to  be  thoroughly  well  founded. 
After  an  introduction  worthy  to  be  compared  with  what  the 
Propylaea  of  the  Acropolis  at  Athens  must  have  been,  at  once  in 
severe  majesty  and  in  refinement  of  execution,  the  interest  of  the 
story  rapidly  and  irremediably  falls  off.  It  is,  truly,  to  take  a 
phrase  from  the  Preface  to  Endymion,  "  too  late  a  day."  The 
attempt  to  revivify  an  ancient  myth,  —  as  distinguished  from  an 
ancient  story  of  human  life,  —  however  alluring,  however  illus- 
trated by  poets  of  genius,  seems  to  me  essentially  impossible. 
It  is  for  the  details,  not  for  the  whole,  that  we  read  Hyperion,  or 
Prometheus  Unbound,  or  the  German  Iphigeneia.  Like  the  great 
majority  of  post-classical  verse  in  classical  languages,  those  modern 
myths  are  but  exercises,  (and,  as  such,  with  tneir  value  to  the 
writer,)  on  a  splendid  scale.  The  story  of  which  Hyperion  tells 
the  beginning  is,  in  fact,  far  too  remote,  too  alien  from  the  modern 
world :  it  has  neither  any  definite  symbolical  meaning,  nor  any  of 
that  "  soft  humanity  "  which  underlies  the  wild  magic  of  Lamia, 
and  has  rendered  possible  a  picture,  true  not  only  to  Corinth  two 
thousand  years  ago,  but  to  all  time.  —  Yet,  with  such  strange 
vital  force  has  he  penetrated  into  the  Titan  world,  and  all  but 
given  the  reality  of  life  to  the  old  shadows  before  him,  that,  had 
this  miracle  been  possible,  we  may  fairly  say  that  Keats  would 
have  worked  it. 

The  author  was,  hence,  right  in  "  giving  up  "  Hyperion.  Yet, 
by  a  singular  irony  of  literary  fate,  Hyperion  was  the  first  of  his 
poems  which  seems  to  have  reached  fame  beyond  his  own  Eng- 
lish circle  of  admirers.  Byron,  in  a  passage  often  quoted,  placed 
its  sublimity  on  a  level  with  Aeschylus.  But  the  cnticisms  which 
it  called  forth  from  Shelley  are  the  most  noteworthy.  In  Nov. 
1820  we  find  him  writing  that  he  has  received  "  a  volume  of 
poems  by  Keats;  in  other  respects  insignificant  enough,  but  con- 
taining the  fragment  of  a  poem  called  Hyperion.  .  .  ._  It  is  cer- 
tainly an  astonishing  piece  of  writing."  Nor  was  this  Shelley's 
first  impression  only;  for  on  15  Feb.  1821  he  returns  to  Keats: 
"  His  other  poems  are  worth  little;  but,  if  the  Hyperion  be  nol 
grand  poetry,  none  has  been  produced  by  our  contemporaries."  — 
If  we  remember  the  masterpieces  contained  in  the  precious  little 
book  of  1820,  it  may  be  reasonably  held  that  even  the  political 
antagonists  of  Keats  and  his  friends  could  hardly  have  exceeded 
these  criticisms  in  blind  prosaic  injustice.  So  may  one  great 
poet,  —  and  he,  snow-pure  from  taint  of  envy  or  malice,  —  mis- 
understand and  misestimate  another ! 


294 


NOTES. 


PAGE 

241  My  object  in  these  notes  has  been  only  to  aid  readers  to  enjoy 
the  Poems  before  them;  not  to  offer  a  formal  estimate  of  the 
genius  of  Keats,  or  of  his  place  in  English  poetry.  But,  as  the 
writer  is  little  known  in  England,  I  will  suggest  to  some  readers 
that  in  Andr£  Chenier  (1762-1794)  they  will  find  a  poet  curiously 
and,  on  the  whole,  (I  would  venture  to  think),  nearly  analogous 
to  Keats.  In  both,  Beauty  is  the  first  and  last  note  heard;  both 
were  led  to  the  legends  of  Hellas  as  a  natural  source  of  inspira- 
tion; in  both,  freshness  of  phrase,  picturesqueness  of  form  and 
presentation,  easy  abundance  of  imaginative  description,  are  con- 
spicuous. I  may  refer,  as  illustrations,  to  Chenier's  Epistle  to 
Le  Brun  and  the  Marquis  of  Brazais  (No.  i,  Ed.  1852),  to  the 
Third  Epistle  to  Le  Brun,  and  that  to  De  Pange  (No.  iv)  :  to 
the  fragmentary  Idyll,  Lis  Colombes  (No.  xix),  and  that  num- 
bered xii,  the  influence  of  which  over  Alfred  de  Mussel  is  obvious. 
—  Chenier's  longer  Idylls,  though  brilliant  in  skill,  have  too  much 
of  Gallic  epigram  and  rhetoric  to  do  full  justice  to  his  exquisite 
genius. 

255  The  speech  of  Oceanus,  with  its  reasonings  from  natural  law 
and  development,  may  remind  us  of  the  rationalistic  vein  which 
we  find,  here  and  there,  throughout  the  Idylls  of  the  King. 

267  I   This   fine   sonnet   was   written   by   Jan.   1818,    soon   after   the 
completion  of  Endymion. 

II   This  song,  of  a  strange  and  ineffable  beauty,  with  Nos.  3,  4, 
6,  7,  I  conjecturally  place  in  1818-9. 

268  III   A  fragment  from  an  Opera. 

268  La  belle  Dame :  Keats  is  not  quite  at  his  best,  not  quite 
himself,  in  this  imitative  Ballad,  —  which,  alone  among  his  poems, 
is  admirable  rather  for  the  picturesqueness  of  the  whole,  than,  (as 
with  Lamia  or  the  Nightingale),  for  the  equal  wealth  of  the 
details  also. 

371  V   Composed  at  Teignmouth  by  Sep.  1818. 

272  VIII  Keats  wrote  this,  —  said  to  have  been  his  last  poem, — 
after  landing  on  the  grand  Dorset  coast  at  the  beginning  of  his 
voyage  to  Italy,  Autumn,  1820:  — when  "  the  bright  beauty  of  the 
day  and  the  scene  revived  for  a  moment  the  poet's  drooping 
heart." 

What  would  have  been  the  next  development  in  the  genius  and 
poetry  of  Keats,  —  aged  but  twenty-four  when  he  sighed  out  his 
soul  in  this  lovely  Sonnet?  I  can  offer  nothing  here  but  the  Poet's 
letters:  It  is  better  to  close  the  book  with  his  own  words.  Lamia 
had  been  completed,  Hyperion  laid  aside,  in  September  1819. 
Two  months  later,  speaking  of  some  poem,  undefined,  perhaps, 
even  to  himself,  which  he  desired  to  write,  he  says:  "As 
the  marvellous  is  the  most  enticing,  and  the  surest  guarantee 


NOTES.  295 

PAGE 

272  wonders  to  me.  I  am  more  at  home  amongst  men  and  women. 
I  would  rather  read  Chaucer  than  Ariosto " :  —  adding,  (in 
another  letter),  with  characteristic  modest  sincerity,  "  Some  think 
I  have  lost  that  poetic  fire  and  ardor  they  say  I  once  had.  The 
fact  is,  I  perhaps  have,  but  instead  of  that  I  hope  I  shall  substitute 
a  more  thoughtful  and  quiet  power.  I  am  more  contented  to  read 
and  think,  but  seldom  haunted  with  ambitious  thoughts.  I  am 
scarcely  content  to  write  the  best  verse  from  the  fever  they  leave 
behind.  I  want  to  compose  without  this  fever;  I  hope  I  shall 
one  day."  —  That  day,  however,  Keats  was  never  to  see.  His 
fatal  attack  followed  very  shortly  upon  the  letter  above  quoted, 
and  his  medical  knowledge  forbade  him  to  nourish  the  hopes 
which  often  delude  and  alleviate  consumption.  Once  more, 
(Feb.  16,  1820),  he  turns  to  Nature,  but  with  what  a  pathos, — 
with  how  deeper  a  sense  of  humanity,  than  in  his  younger  days ! 

"  How  astonishingly  does  the  chance  of  leaving  the  world 
impress  a  sense  of  its  natural  beauties  upon  me!  Like  poor 
Falstaff,  though  I  do  not  'babble,'  I  think  of  green  fields;  I 
muse  with  the  greatest  affection  on  every  flower  I  have  known 
from  my  infancy  —  their  shapes  and  colors  are  as  new  to  me 
as  if  I  had  just  created  them  with  a  superhuman  fancy.  It  is 
because  they  are  connected  with  the  most  thoughtless  and  the 
happiest  moments  of  our  lives.  I  have  seen  foreign  flowers  in 
hothouses,  of  the  most  beautiful  nature,  but  I  do  not  care  a 
straw  for  them.  The  simple  flowers  of  our  Spring  are  what  I 
want  to  see  again." 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


PAGE 

As  late  I  rambled  in  the  happy  fields 36 

Asleep !  O  sleep  a  little  while,  white  pearl 268 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever 57 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 234 

Bright  star!  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art    ....  272 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 241 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam        ........  231 

Fair  Isabel,  poor  simple  Isabel 193 

Fame,  like  a  wayward  girl,  will  still  be  coy 271 

Four  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year 271 

Full  many  a  dreary  hour  have  I  past 26 

Give  me  a  golden  pen,  and  let  me  lean 40 

Glory  and  loveliness  have  passed  away          .....  xiil 

Good  Kosciusko,  thy  great  name  alone         .        .  42 

Great  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning 41 

Had  I  a  man's  fair  form,  then  might  my  sighs      .         .         .         -35 

Hadst  thou  liv'd  in  days  of  old 17 

Happy  is  England !  I  could  be  content 4a 

Hast  thou  from  the  caves  of  Golconda,  a  gem       .         .        .        • .     *5 

Highmindedness,  a  jealousy  for  good 4° 

How  fever'd  is  the  man,  who  cannot  look 272 

How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses  of  time 36 

In  a  drear-nighted  December '67 

1  stood  tip-toe  upon  a  little  hill * 

Just  at  the  self-same  beat  of  Time's  wide  wings    .        .        .        •  25* 


298  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PACK 

Keen,  fitful  gusts  are  whisp'ring  here  and  there    .        .        .        .  38 

Lo !  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry 7 

Love  in  a  hut,  with  water  and  a  crust 183 

Many  the  wonders  I  this  day  have  seen 34 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold 39 

Muse  of  my  native  land !  loftiest  Muse          .....  140 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains     ....  225 

No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 239 

No !  those  days  are  gone  away       .....                 .  236 

Now  Morning  from  her  orient  chamber  came        .  .20 

Nymph  of  the  downward  smile,  and  sidelong  glance     ...  37 

Oft  have  you  seen  a  swan  superbly  frowning         ....  30 

O  Goddess !  hear  these  tuneless  numbers,  wrung          .         .         .  129 

O  solitude!  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell 37 

O  sovereign  power  of  love !  O  grief!  O  balm        ....  84 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms <68 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness 238 

Small,  busy  flames  play  through  the  fresh  laid  coals    ...  38 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone 235 

St.  Agnes' Eve  —  Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was 212 

Sweet  are  the  pleasures  that  to  verse  belong         ....  23 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead 41 

There  are  who  lord  it  o'er  their  fellow-men 112 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness 228 

Thus  in  alternate  uproar  and  sad  peace 262 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent 39 

Upon  a  time,  before  the  faery  broods 171 

What  is  more  gentle  than  a  wind  in  summer         ....  43 

What  though,  for  showing  truth  to  flatter'd  state           •         .         .  35 

What  though,  while  the  wonders  of  nature  exploring    ...  14 

When  by  my  solitary  hearth  I  sit 18 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 467 

Woman !  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain 31 

Young  Calidore  is  paddling  o'er  the  lake.      .        .        .        .        .  o 


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